


The Earth Goes Around the Sun (And Other Things Sherlock Holmes Doesn't Know About the Solar System)

by Foureyedfool



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Culture, Aliens, Awkward Romance, Coauthored, Developing Relationship, First Time, Insecure Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, John is an Alien, Loss of Trust, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining John, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Feels like a Third Wheel, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Feels, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Starts with texting, Stubborn John, Stubborn Sherlock, Telepathic Bond, alienlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 77,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4274322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foureyedfool/pseuds/Foureyedfool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon learning that his flatmate is not only an alien but also has an adult son and a dead wife, Sherlock finds himself struggling to trust anything and everything John says to him, even when John tells him that he loves him. As he is coming to terms with his own ignorance--the years of telling people, 'You see but you do not observe!' now coming back to bite him--he and John need to find a way to make their friendship--and a budding relationship--work.</p><p>With all of their snark and wit intact, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is all texting. Chapter 2 starts the prose :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a disclaimer--one you all already know--I don't own Sherlock :)

_Sherlock_. It's been three weeks. JW

Has it? Time does fly. SH

[Delayed] Ready to talk? JW

Yes. SH

 _Brilliant_. Come home, I've made tea. JW  
Mrs. Hudson has popped out for the afternoon, so if you need to shout - be my guest. JW

I would prefer if we speak over text. I do prefer it, you know. SH  
I shout regardless of whether she is there or not. She doesn't mind. SH  
Or at least, I don't mind if she minds. SH

She _does_ mind. Frightens the poor old thing. JW  
You'll have to come home at some point anyhow, and I'll be waiting. JW  
[Delayed] Anyway, I take it you've got a few questions. JW

She should be used to it by now. SH  
Yes, I will need to be home soon enough. I have had to buy new clothes. I _hate_ shopping for clothes. SH

[Delayed] You  _bought_  clothes? You actually went to a store? JW

You _tried_ on clothes? Wow. JW

It was either that or stand, nude, while I waited for previous outfit to be washed in a laundromat. No, I did not try them on. I know my measurements; a simple glance tells me whether or not a garment will fit. SH

 _Relax_ , Sherlock. I'm simply impressed you left the flat for anything other than a case. JW  
Well done, by the way. I'll inform Mycroft of this joyful occasion. JW

It does happen from time to time. SH  
He already knows. I have been staying with him. SH

[Delayed] You can come home, you know. JW  
Nothing has changed. The flat's still the way you left it. JW

I am sure there are subtle differences. SH

I even left those lamb eyeballs festering in the sink. JW  
Subtle, yes, fine. JW  
But we're still mates, right? JW

Of course they are not subtle to me, because I notice them as easily as I would notice a drastic change. SH  
Mates. Yes. SH

[Delayed] If you're worried that I'm dangerous, don't. JW  
Have you mentioned anything to Mycroft? JW

I have never feared dangerous things, John. I'm not about to start now. SH

 _Good_. So come home. JW

Of course not. Of course he is suspicious as to why I am not returning to Baker Street, so I told him that you told me you were infatuated with me and wished to engage in a romantic and sexual relationship with me. SH  
It was the first lie that came to mind. It worked. SH

[Long Delay] You informed your brother that _I_ propositioned myself towards you? Sherlock! He probably bloody thinks of me as some sort of sexually charged deviant. JW  
For Christ's sake, tell him it's a bloody lie! JW

I believe your ex-girlfriends or hookups would agree, Mr. Three-Continents Watson. SH

 _Shut up_. JW

Do relax. He only scoffed and rolled his eyes, as is his way. SH

Seriously, I'll text him myself. JW  
The rumours are already blazing. No need to throw more petrol on the fire. JW

You would rather him know that you are an alien? Unwise, John. SH

[Long Delay] Don't use that word. JW

What word? Alien? I shouldn't call you an alien? SH  
Would you prefer extraterrestrial? SH

Yes, _that_ one. And sod the other one, you clot. I'm _John._ JW

And I am Sherlock, a human. You are John, the--whatever your species is called. It is not derogatory; it is factual. SH

Oh, you're human? _Really?_ Call the newspapers. Contact the media. London, we've got ourselves a _human_. JW

I was making a point. SH

Point taken, acknowledged and received. JW

Then stop being an idiot. SH  
If you can. SH  
Personally, I have my doubts. SH

I'm not being an idiot, Sherlock. You're the one who has practically given up on our friendship. JW

I haven't given up on our friendship. I needed time away to think through things. SH

You've had three solid weeks. Time's up. JW  
People are starting to talk, Sherlock. Lestrade wants to know what the sod is going on. JW  
Mrs. Hudson keeps asking me questions, and I'm fairly sure Mycroft won't believe that I'm some sort of sexual predator for much longer. JW

I do not think you have the right to rush me. SH  
Granted, that has never stopped me, but you are not me. SH

How much longer are you going to keep this up for? JW  
I'm not going to stop being what I am, you sod. I _can’t_. JW

I am aware of that. It is simply taking time to process. SH

[Delayed] I probably should make mention that any and _all_ DNA samples you've potentially stolen off me must be destroyed. JW

Yes, I am already aware of that. Do not worry; there are not any. I only use them for the experiment and then dispose of them. SH

You're experimenting on my DNA? JW

Never mind, not surprising. But please, do stop. JW

I will attempt to resist the temptation to not do so again. SH

Thank you. Good. JW

You are not in any danger from me. SH

I never believed that I was. At least, you wouldn't hurt me intentionally. JW  
But drawing attention to our collapsing friendship will draw attention to _me._ JW

I would not, no. However, I do hurt everyone unintentionally at some point or another. You are well aware of that, of course. SH

Of course I know that. I _live_ with you. JW  
Or, I did. JW

Why does it matter that you will have attention drawn to you? It's not as if that will have them make the leap to 'John Watson isn't human'. SH  
If anything, people believe that about _me_. SH

[Delayed] Ironic, isn't it? And oddly enough, people _notice._ But it's not people I'm worried about, it's that brother of yours. JW  
If he knew what you knew, it's suddenly a matter of National Security. JW

I can assure you, Mycroft does not care enough about you to watch you. SH  
He had little respect for you before. Now that he thinks you are, to quote yourself, a 'sexual deviant', he has even less. SH

And it won't be long until he realises it's all a very nicely crafted facade. JW

John. He will not know. SH

[Delayed] I've spent far too many years on this floating rock blending in. I swear to Christ, if I get caught because of you…JW

You _won't_ You trusted me before this. Trust me now. SH

I'll start trusting you again when you move back in. JW

You may need to wait a bit longer, in that case. SH

[Delayed] And yes, I'm aware that's a tad hypocritical. I _should_ have told you when I met you, but I'm sure you can understand why I didn't. JW  
A bit longer? Are you scared of me? Is that it? JW

I am not scared of you. SH

So what's the reason? JW  
I'm not going to _probe_ you, for Christ's sake. Those movies really send out the wrong message. JW

I am not scared, John. SH

So what’s the reason? JW  
If you refuse to be upfront with me, I'm afraid I can't help you with any of your... Queries. JW

You're right. Most people would require only one week to come to terms with this. SH  
How dare I require longer. SH

I never said that. Don't bloody put words in my mouth, sod. JW  
I don't see what the problem is. Yes, it's a shock. Yes, I've been lying. But I'm still your _friend_. JW

I believe I am going to delete the information. SH  
I have been toying with the idea. SH

I'm not here by choice. I'm not here to 'infiltrate' Earth and all its secrets. I'm not here to experiment. JW  
I crashed, I adapted, and I moved on when I realised that help was never coming. JW  
Deleting this isn't going to fix anything. JW

Idiot. Crashing your own ship. SH

Not my choice, and I wasn't the pilot. JW

On the contrary, deleting it will fix everything. SH

[Delayed] You have questions, yes? Lots and lots of questions. Any concerns, I can put your fears at ease but you have to _let_ me help you. JW  
Deleting everything that happened is just one _huge_ step back. JW

One would think that I would have questions, but I can assure you that I am struggling to think of a single thing to ask. SH

Where am I from? How old am I? How many species populate the multiple galaxies scattered around the various quadrants? I'm sure I can think of a few. JW  
Or the better one, am I dangerous? What did I used to do before this? I could have been a prisoner, a mercenary. An 'assassin'. JW

You are from Earth. Leeds. You are thirty-six. There are approximately seven-point one-two-five billion others of your species living on earth and innumerable other species on same. You are dangerous; you are quite skilled with a handgun, or your fists. You were a doctor serving the British Army in Afghanistan. SH  
I have answered your questions. SH

And yet, you got them mostly wrong. JW

That's hardly my fault. They are all things that I was told. By you. Whom I trusted. Because you are my friend. SH

I'm not from Earth. Planet name can't be translated to the English language, but the closest 'sounding' word I believe is 'Terra'. Population, four billion, give or take a few hundred million. I was and have always been a medic, also known as a 'doctor'. Combat medic for the Federation, actually - and a bloody good one. I _am_ dangerous, given my skill-set. I've been known to hit a target from time to time. JW  
[Delayed] It's a backstory, Sherlock. I've recited it enough to the point where I almost believe it myself. JW

That certainly makes it all right, then. SH

No, it doesn't make it right. But would you honestly have been okay with the truth? JW  
'Hello. I'm an alien, let's be flatmates'. JW  
Ah, yes. That would have gone down swimmingly. JW

I would rather have an alien for a flatmate than a liar who strings me along like a bloody toy. SH

Now, hold on a _bloody_ minute. I omitted to the truth, yes. But I never _lied_ to your face in a way that disadvantaged our friendship. JW

Harry. SH  
Your parents. SH  
Those were lies. SH

Harry's a friend. My _parents_ likely believe me to be long dead. JW

Being born at Spire Leeds, a lie. SH  
Your childhood stories, lies. SH

Start a lie, and it just keeps building. I didn't have a choice. JW

How old are you? SH

My service to the military on Earth was real. JW  
Does it matter? JW

You cannot demand that I ask questions and then not answer them when I do. SH

Sixty eight. JW

Ancient. SH

 _Shut up_. JW

Your kind lives to what, then? Two-hundred or so? SH

Two hundred and thirty is the standard average for a male. Two hundred and forty nine is the average for a female. JW

Then you are a quarter of the way through your life. Congratulations. SH

[Delayed] It's nothing brilliant to boast about. I'm still technically on the younger and much more inexperienced side of things. JW

I was being sarcastic anyway. SH

I figured. The sarcasm was seething through your text. JW  
Now, are you convinced that I'm not a danger? JW

 _You_ are the one who keeps talking about you being dangerous. I have never once said that. SH  
Save for my comment about your skills with a gun and your fists. SH

I can understand your apprehension. In your shoes, I can understand your fear. It's natural. JW

I am not afraid of you. SH

But aside from that, I'm still me. I'm John. You know, your friend? JW  
[Delayed] You're absolutely certain that Mycroft doesn't suspect a thing? JW

Friend. Yes. Granted, very little of what you have told me about your past is true, but you are still you. Of course. SH  
Confident. He would not be able to keep it to himself. He does love to gloat. SH

I still got shot the shoulder. I went to Afghanistan. Bits and pieces are true. JW  
Well, I'd imagine not. I represent an organisation with enough manpower and artillery to bring a planet to its knees. I wouldn't blame him. JW

Bits and pieces. How nice. SH  
Does anyone even know you are here? SH

I _hate_ cats. That's true. JW  
When the ship went down, three men and one woman on board were killed upon impact. There's another one who is currently missing, and then there's me. JW  
No. We weren't even meant to be in this part of the galaxy. We were under attack, and then we crashed. JW

So more than likely, no. You represent an organisation with enough manpower and artillery to bring a planet to its knees, and that organisation does not even know you are here. You understand why my brother would not be particularly intimidated by you. SH

I never said that's what they _do_. The Federation is a peacekeeping organisation. They wish to end wars, not start them. JW  
I was on my way to a colony a few weeks travel from Earth when we were hit. JW

But they fight them. They fight in the wars they wish to end, in the pursuit of peace. Ironic. SH

They _have_ to. Not everyone gets along. JW  
Like I said, we were attacked. JW

And I am ever so sorry for that. SH

Sorry? You did nothing. JW  
Earth didn't attack us. JW

More sarcasm. SH  
Does Harry know? You said she is a friend. Surely you told her that you also use her as a representation of your sister. SH

[Delayed] She's aware, yes. Hence the reason she's such a raging alcoholic. JW  
But she always agreed to keep up the ruse for my sake. JW

Who else? SH

Who else? Why would you assume there'd be others? JW

Am I incorrect? SH

[Delayed] No. JW

Just as I thought. SH

Stamford found out on his own accord, I never told him. JW  
Until he approached me with proof. Smarter than he looks. JW

What did he use to deal with it? Harry uses liquor, I have taken once more to heroin, what does he use? SH

Stamford's an astrology nut. He was over the moon, to be honest. JW  
And don't you dare take heroin. I don't need you to relapse. Not now. JW

You have someone in your corner, then. Good. SH  
I already have done. SH

[Delayed] Does Mycroft know? JW  
Because he's about to. JW

Of course he knows. He knows everything. SH  
Except for this, obviously. SH

[Delayed] I'm in my right mind to charge over there right now, Sherlock. JW  
For Christ's sake, you relapsed? JW

Just a bit. SH

Humans and drugs. I'll never bloody get it. JW

Yes, I'm sure your species has no vices whatsoever. SH  
Save for the lying, of course. SH

 _Shut up_ , Sherlock. You're behaving like a child. JW  
Although, given your age. Technically you _are_ a child. JW

I would say it's a pretty good excuse. SH

My own _son_ had a far greater maturity level than you, you prat. JW

Oh, you've got children, too? How lovely. SH

One. And that's not important. JW

And a wife? SH

No. Not anymore. JW

Good job that I never acted on any feelings of my own. How inappropriate that would have been. SH  
Was she in the ship with you? SH

[Delayed] Pardon? Feelings of your own? JW  
Does it matter? She's dead, Sherlock. JW

It does not matter, no. I was only curious. SH

Back to the topic of your feelings. JW

It is not a topic. SH

You made it a topic, and I'm deeply curious. What did you mean by ‘inappropriate’? JW

I made a flippant remark and you turned it into a topic when there is no need for it to be so. SH

[Delayed] We're not done with that conversation, Sherlock. Certainly not done with that. JW

I am done with that. SH

[Long Delay] She was in the ship. JW  
To answer your question. JW

Your son is the one missing, then. SH

[Long Delay] Hm. JW

I do not know what that means. SH

Yes. JW  
It means yes. JW

You should probably be out searching. SH

He could be on the other side of the globe for all I know. I suspect a nasty head injury gave him severe retrograde amnesia, but the crash was pretty horrific. Debris was strewn over a field for miles on end. JW

You won't find him in Baker Street, that is for sure. SH

[Delayed] I know for _certain_ he's alive. But, leave it. I gave up searching for him years ago. JW

How's that? Some alien technique? SH

A link. JW

But not mere human intuition. SH

No. A biological, mental link. It's not a pinpoint accuracy locator, but I _know_ he's alive. JW

Well, good. Congratulations. As I said, you will not find him in Baker Street. SH

And, as I said, I've given up searching for him. JW  
And we're not here to chat about my son. JW

You're right. I rather despise children, anyway, although he is probably my age or older. SH

He's about your age. Looks like a kid in his early twenties. JW  
Anyway, enough of that. JW

Yes, I agree. Enough. SH

[Delayed] Seriously, come home tonight. I've been craving Angelo's, and he only gives it for free if you're there. JW

I will call him and tell him to give it to you. SH

No. JW

You could just get carryout. He won't know any better. SH

Come. Home. JW  
[Delayed] You do realise that this is hurting me as well, right? JW

No, I don’t. SH  
How long have you been on earth? SH

Long enough to serve in Afghanistan. JW

That is a horrible answer. SH

Good. We can talk about it over dinner. JW

My _sincerest_ apologies. I cannot seem to make dinner this evening. I have a case. SH  
The murderer is an illegal alien. SH  
Ha. SH

[Long Delay] You're referring to a human whose visa is expired, correct? JW

 

Yes, John. SH

[Delayed] Was that a poor attempt at humor? JW

It was. SH

Have I just witnessed the impossible? JW

Obviously it is not impossible. Improbably, yes, but not impossible. SH

Angelo's beforehand? JW

Obviously you are not going to stop hounding me until I acquiesce. SH  
I will go, but I do not wish to eat. You know I do not eat while on cases. You may. SH

Excellent. Food, and wine. If you're not going to eat, have a drink. I'm shouting. JW

Why are you shouting? SH

No, no. It's a phrase. A saying. I'm going to _buy_ you a drink, Sherlock. JW  
I believe this is what 'friends' do on Earth. JW

Oh, don't act like you don't know what they do. It's not as if you haven't got any. SH

[Delayed] Shut up and let me buy you a drink. JW

I do not often drink. _You_ may drink. SH

You don't often drink, but tonight, you'll have one. For me. For _us._ JW

I will have a glass of water. SH

With wine. JW

What is the significance of wine? SH  
What, if we both drink wine we will put the last three weeks behind us? SH  
We will put my absolute ignorance about all of this behind us? SH

[Delayed] It's not about the wine, it's about the occasion. You and me trying to move on. Having a good time before the case. Is that honestly so hard to wrap your head around? JW  
You're fixated on the idea that I think it's 'hilarious' that you got it wrong. I don't _care_ , Sherlock. I'm not judging you. JW  
And _technically,_ you were getting close to the truth. You knew I spent far too long in the bathroom to 'shave'. You knew there had always been something a little 'off' about me. JW

What _were_ you doing in there? SH

[Delayed] Does it matter? JW

You may as well tell me. SH

Contacts. I need to take them out, make sure they're clean. That, and a few other things. JW  
Must 'keep up appearances'. JW

You had a tail. SH  
And fur. And scales. SH  
Did I miss any feathers? SH

Had? I still _have._ Hasn't bloody gone anywhere. I strap the bloody thing to my leg. JW   
I keep the superficial features suppressed with a compound I formulated. Daily injection. JW  
No feathers. I'm not a sodding chicken. JW

[Delayed] A compound you formulated. I see. SH

Yes. Doesn't take away the major anatomical differences, but it does hide the scales and fur. JW

What else is there? SH

What do you mean, 'what' else? Is the tail not enough? JW

It looked like a dog's. Or one of those long-haired cats. Quite strange, really. SH  
As I said before, you may as well tell me the other things. SH

[Delayed] I'll have you know, where _I’m_ from, it's one of my better, more prized features. JW  
There's not really a great deal else to say. I'm not human. Obviously, there's going to be differences. JW

Is that so. Why is it more prized? SH

[Delayed] Why is being 'muscular' more prized over being more lean? It just is. JW

What a vague answer. SH  
In fact, it was so vague that it _wasn’t_ an answer. It was a question. You answered my question with a question. SH

But I answered it in a way that made sense. JW  
You lot compare sizes of your reproductive organs. I suppose it's a similar concept. JW

I don't compare sizes. SH

Not _you_. JW

So it is for mating. SH

But others. Most males. JW  
Mating? Oh, no. We're not talking about mating. JW  
I mean, we're not talking about reproductive anatomy for Christ's sake. JW

Male peacocks use their tails to attract females. SH

Brilliant. Did you Google that? JW

No. I read it on a zoo placard. SH  
What else is different about you? SH

Not much. That's mostly it. Now, we were going for Angelo's, yes? JW

Only because you insist upon having a glass of wine. SH

[Delayed] Excellent. JW

You could get wine from the off-license. SH

We're drinking wine _together._ JW

You are going to tamper with it. SH  
Water won't mask the taste. Wine will. SH

[Delayed] Oh, for sod's sake. JW  
No. I am not going to tamper with the wine, knock you out, have my way with you and make you carry my offspring. JW  
Although, the thought is tempting. JW  
[Delayed] _Kidding._ JW

Oh, no. I already said that it was a good thing I had not acted upon my feelings. I am not taking that back. SH

[Long Delay] I'm going to ask you a question and I want you answer it honestly. No matter how awkward. JW  
Are you attracted to me? JW

Perhaps I should answer your question with a question, hmm? SH  
Or maybe this one? SH  
How about this one? SH

Yes, or no. It's that simple. JW

When have you ever known me to be attracted to people, John? SH

[Delayed] You already admitted to having feelings. I suppose you've already answered the question. JW

Mm. I have, haven't I? How silly of me. SH

You lot are so finicky about _gender_ for Christ's sake. JW  
I am, to you. By the way. JW  
See? Not so bloody hard. JW

What are you going on about? I never once mentioned your gender. SH  
And you are what? Finicky? Believe me, I know. SH

No. It's got to be a man and a woman. You can't have two men, or two women. _Strange._ JW

There are millions of homosexual relationships in existence at this very moment. SH

Yes, but that doesn't mean everyone is _okay_ with it. JW

Not everyone is okay with everything. Not everyone is ever going to be okay with everything. SH  
I do not care about one's gender. However, I do seem to have always preferred the company of men. I imagine it is because women, on average, tend to be more emotional. Or, at least, they have been conditioned to be more expressive about it. SH

[Delayed] On _my_ planet, gender is merely a biological state. You're either one or the other, but you're essentially one in the same. JW

That does seem to be a simpler way of living. No expectations. Only anatomy. SH

Does make it rather bothersome when it comes to starting a family though. JW

Why? SH

Ah, long story. Boring anatomical things. Not important. JW

So ‘you lot’ are male or female, but it is not as simple as the male impregnating the female. SH

I'm _male_. JW

I meant 'you lot' as a whole. Not _you._ SH

Ah. Yes, right. JW

I would say that I wish to learn more about it, but I don't. SH  
Biology has never been my primary area of interest, particularly reproductive biology. SH

[Delayed] Excellent. I suppose it's a particular aspect of my biology that I'd rather you not know about in great detail. JW

Well, now I do wish to know. SH

You just said you didn't want to know! JW

I changed my mind about it. SH

There's not really much I _can_ tell you. JW  
I'm male. My wife was female. JW  
There's two genders. Anything else? JW

You have a penis? Testicles? SH

[Long Delay] And I'm loving this conversation already. JW  
Yes. Yes. JW

Then what is so different? The shape? SH

No. My _equipment_ is all normal. JW  
[Long Delay] I have something almost equivalent to a... Pouch. JW

A what? SH

Similar to a marsupial. JW

Oh. That sounds unpleasant. SH

[Delayed] It's really just a faint, small opening below my sternum. Barely noticeable. JW

And you carry offspring in it? SH

[Long Delay] Once it leaves the female after 24 days of gestation. JW

So it is a shared process between the two of you. How romantic. SH

 _Shut up_. JW

How long is the gestational period? SH

Six months. JW

Mm. I would say she gets the better end of the deal. SH

[Delayed] It's a shared bonding process. The female creates life, the male nurtures it. JW

Yes. As I said: how romantic. SH

Your sarcasm is noted. JW

There is plenty of it. SH

So. Dinner. What time? Seven? Six? JW

Eight. Nine. SH

Probably nine. My stakeout is set to begin at ten, you see. SH

[Delayed] Perfect. Eight sounds excellent. JW

Perhaps I will have a bite or two off yours. My transport does need a bit of fuel. SH

I'll order you your own. You're starting to look a bit on the unnecessarily skinny side. JW

You've not seen me for three weeks. SH

I haven't had the need to. Mycroft said you don't eat, and you're certainly not eating the food at the flat. JW

Don't talk to my brother. I despise the fact that you two have your little gossip sessions. SH

He's actually not _terrible_ company. Despite being a narcissistic, overbearing dictator. JW

Of course he is terrible company. He only seems not-terrible to you because he is an excellent actor. M

[Delayed] Do me a favor, and dress nicely. Might as well make a nice evening out of it. JW

Why do I have to dress nicely? It's Angelo's. We don't even pay for the food. SH

Just, let's make something out of it. This is the most honest we've been since we've known each other. Wear a suit. JW

I think I would prefer we go back to lying. SH  
I always wear suits. SH

[Delayed] Yes, you do. Fair point. JW  
Oh, so you want to pretend I'm human? Fine. Works for me. JW

It is too late now. Merely one of those thoughts that is wishful thinking. SH

[Delayed] You _wanted_ to know the details. You wanted me to be upfront and honest. If you didn't want to know, you shouldn't have asked! JW

Yes. On second thought, I decided that I did not wish to be even more clueless than I already was. SH

So, when you return back to Baker Street, you have a choice. I can either be open about this, or we can go back to the way things were. I don't mind. JW

Open. SH

You _want_ be open about this? JW

You're certain? JW

Either way, I already know. SH

Ignoring it will not change anything. SH

 _Exactly_. Ignoring isn't healthy, so therefore - honesty is going to help us more forward. JW

Shall I be honest, then? SH

[Delayed] _Please_. JW

Honestly, I feel like a right idiot. I feel like I have been taken in. I feel like I have been used by you. I feel like I trusted you blindly even though I knew there was something off about you. I feel like I am nowhere near as intelligent as I was. For all my lectures, for all my telling you and everyone else, 'you see but you do not observe', I have done the exact same thing. I am _ordinary._ SH  
I feel like less of a man, less of a detective, less of a person. Bloody hell, I even feel like less of a chemist. You whipped up a compound to keep your fur and scales suppressed. I would not even begin to have an idea of knowing how to do that. SH  
You know about an entire planet that I know, virtually, nothing about and never will. You had a wife whom you loved and had a child with, and then there is me, the man who always wondered _what_ it was that was off about you but immediately told himself, 'no, no, this is John; John wouldn't keep anything from you'. SH  
Seeing you is only going to make me feel like an even bigger idiot. I am going to stare at the man who has lied to me and be reminded of not only that fact, but the fact that I couldn't figure it out for myself, the fact that all that I see is not all that there is, the fact that I am merely one of seven billion humans with whom you happened upon, and that I only ever _did_ find out the truth on accident. SH  
That is how I feel. Honestly. SH  
Oh, and of course I cannot ignore the obvious humiliation that came from admitting my feelings, particularly after discovering that you already had a _family._ That was unpleasant. _Honestly_. SH

[Long Delay] You are the most brilliant, human being I have ever had the privilege and the pleasure to know, Sherlock. Before I met you, I wasn't moving forward. I was _stuck._ You pulled me out of a rut that I'd been stuck in for years, and when I met you, I had hope that things would be _better._ Yes, I lied. I lied, and it was the worst thing I could have possibly done. I should have told you. After all, the truth will set you free, right? JW  
You are noless of a man because you didn't figure this out. You didn't know, because I _hid_ it from you. Yes, we met purely by chance, but isn't that what life is all about? If my ship had never been attacked, I'd be back on my own planet. My family would be alive, but life didn't work out that way. I lost my family, and I met you. And you gave me a reason to live again. JW  
I had a family because given my age and given my species, it would be incredible if I didn't. Yes, my son is out there. Yes, I _miss_ him. I carried him for six months, and raised him to be a _good_ person. But he is out there, missing. Gone. And whilst I miss him terribly, I care for you and I've developed feelings for you. Strong feelings. Dare I say it, a _bond_. JW

[Delayed] Thank you. SH

Pardon? JW

I did not know what else to say, so I settled for something polite. Thought I'd give it a try. SH

[Long Delay] That bond I spoke about before. The biological one. JW  
It shouldn't be able to cross species. As far as I'm aware, it never has. JW

It's not real. SH

The bond? JW  
It's a _biological_ connection, Sherlock. JW

Between one of us. SH

At this point, it's from me to you. Yes. JW

Yes. I don't feel it. Therefore, this sentimental, shocking conclusion that you have come to means absolutely nothing to me. SH

[Delayed] Do you not see the significance? This isn't just about us being 'friends'. JW  
This 'bond' doesn't just develop because we 'live' together and drink tea together. I shared it with my wife. I share it with my _son._ JW

Both of whom you lived with and drank tea with, I would imagine. SH

We don't _have_ tea where I'm from. And no, not for that reason. JW

No tea, of course. I suppose that should have been obvious. SH

[Long Delay] I should never have lied, but that's water under the bridge at this point. We'll mend things. Move on from here. JW

No. No, you should not have. SH  
Water under the bridge, of course. SH

[Delayed] So, are we good? JW

It's all fine. SH

 _Excellent_. JW

Bring your gun tonight. SH

[Delayed] I thought you said this was just about an 'illegal alien'? JW  
Aren't we just apprehending him? Or her? JW

We need to catch him, first. SH

But surely the aim _isn’t_ to put a bullet in his brain. JW

Obviously not. However, he will have a gun. It stands to reason that we should have one, too. SH

[Delayed] Fine. But as I said, let's enjoy a nice dinner _with_ wine before we decide to start shooting illegal immigrants. JW

Really, since when have you been so hell-bent on _wine_? SH

I _need_ a drink. These past few weeks have been emotionally taxing, to say the least. JW

Fine. Drink your wine. SH

[Delayed] Brilliant. So, will you be spending the night at the flat? JW

Maybe. Maybe we will be busy all night chasing after a deranged lunatic. SH

After of which, you will return back to the flat. Your room is the way you left it. JW

I do not care to be bossed about, John. SH

Fine. Would you _please_ return back to the flat after we finish up with our case? JW  
[Delayed] I'll give you a vial of that compound so you can analyze it if you do. JW

I do not wish to analyze it. SH  
Why are you in such a bloody hurry for me to return? Are alien-hunters after you? SH

No. The flat is lonely. I miss you. JW

I'm sure Harry would be more than happy to come over. SH  
Or Mike Stamford. SH

 _Sherlock_. JW

Yes? SH

Stop dancing around the fact that we've both admitted that we share a physical and emotional attraction. JW

Shared, John. Do get your tenses right. SH

 _Share_. JW  
Present tense. JW

Oh, well. Perhaps this is just another thing that I am mistaken about. SH

We _just_ spoke about this! JW

Yes. Yes, we did. SH  
Perhaps I am not playing fair. SH

No, you're not! For Christ's sake, we are being _honest_. Why are you finding it so hard to be _open_ about how you feel? JW

Because that is not who I am. SH

But things have _changed_. JW

That would make it easier for you, yes. SH

[Delayed] Fine. See you tonight. JW

What time did we say? Nine thirty? SH

No. Earlier. Dinner, remember? JW  
Or, did you just want to forgo the whole thing? JW

Yes. Dinner at nine-thirty. Case at ten. SH

That's what you'd prefer, right? JW

I'm sorry, am I allowed to have an opinion, now? SH

You either have feelings, or you don't. I've practically out-poured my most intimate secrets onto you, and yet - you still shy away. If you want to remain strictly friends, fine. I'm _fine_ with that. JW

You never before mentioned anything to me about having feelings. You are the one who always insisted that he was 'not gay'. Now that we are having difficulties, you suddenly share that you have experienced this magical, alien _bond._ SH

 _Only_ because I saw how uncomfortable the accusations made you! The bond is _real_. I can't just turn it off! JW

You consider me a part of your family. SH

You _are_ a part of my family. JW

And I became that way through us living and drinking tea together. SH

You're over complicating this. I have feelings. You have feelings. Surprise, we both give a damn about each other! JW

Perhaps I am over complicating things. I do have a tendency to do that. Over-complicating and over-thinking. SH

You are, and it's fine. It's what you do. JW

We should stop discussing this, don't you agree? SH

[Delayed] Agreed. JW

Are you wearing a suit as well? SH

Oh, is the dinner still on? JW

I had thought so. SH

Yes. I will. JW

Although running around London, in suits, after eating and drinking may not be your wisest decision. SH

[Delayed] I'm sure we've made far worse decisions in the past. JW

Like what? SH

When I think of an example, I'll let you know. JW

That is very encouraging, John. Thank you. SH

You're welcome. JW

He is at the zoo, supposedly. SH

[Delayed] The zoo? Hiding out amongst the zebras, is he? JW

No. The flamingos. SH

Hilarious. Is he wearing pink? JW

Yes, and standing on stilts. SH

Are you taking the piss? JW

Obviously, John. SH

Ah. JW  
[Long Delay] Mycroft can track down anyone, can't he? JW

Generally so, yes. SH

Right, yes. Of course. JW

Just give me his name. SH

[Delayed] He might not have kept it. With amnesia, I doubt it. JW

Then give me his appearance. SH

[Delayed] My height, although I suppose a bit taller. Took after his mother, really. Looks to be in his early twenties; bit of a smart arse at times, but a good kid. His fur and scales hadn't come through yet, and won't do for another few years at least. The tail would be hairless, and his eyes would be a defining blue. JW

Hairless? Like a rat. SH  
That does not really help. Name? Just in case he still uses it. SH

A _rat?_ No, Sherlock. He's not a rodent. He's my son. JW  
Stevran. The shortened version, but he always preferred that. JW

I said _like_ a rat. SH  
I will look. Or, more accurately, I will have Mycroft look. SH

[Delayed] If you do find him, don't contact him. JW

I will give you his contact information. SH

[Delayed] Fine. JW

[6:47PM] [Contact No. Included.]  
I suppose we will have to wait on dinner. SH

[Long Delay] You found him. JW

You actually located him? Or should I say, Mycroft did? JW

Mycroft, of course. SH

What do you know? JW

I know that I just texted you his mobile phone number. SH

No. What do you know about him? What did you find out? JW

Mycroft did it. Not me. SH

But he would have told you _something._ He wouldn't have just handed you a number. JW  
Something, Sherlock. Just tell me _something._  JW

He lives in Whitechapel. SH  
He's got a family. SH

[Long Delay] You mean, he's got a girlfriend? JW

No. I mean he's living with his 'parents' and sisters. He's getting his medical degree. Like father, like son. SH

[Long Delay] And otherwise, he's healthy? No criminal record? JW

A bit of hacking. SH  
Nothing too malicious. SH

Typical. He's got a very good analytical mind, that one. JW  
So, he's happy. He's well, and he's happy. Christ, I think I need to sit down. JW

He seems to be thriving, yes. Apparently he wishes to be a plastic surgeon. SH  
To help others with deformities. I assume he means his tail. SH

He wants to _remove_ his tail. JW

I imagine he does not know the significance of it. You said he may have amnesia. He does not go by Stevran; he goes by Steven. It was probably as close as he could remember. SH

He might have amnesia but _surely_ he must know that he's not like his 'family' and friends. And he hasn't even gone through his change yet - he probably doesn't know what's going to hit him in the next year or so. JW

You would do well to warn him, then. SH

[Delayed] That's if I'm going to get in contact with him. JW  
As you said, he's thriving. JW

I imagine growing fur and scales would put an abrupt stop to that. SH  
At least, if it happens without any explanation. SH

[Delayed] It's essentially the equivalent to puberty. Not a brilliant time. JW  
It's been _years._ I can't just walk back into his life. JW

Just go, John. SH

[Long Delay] I want you with me. JW

Don't be stupid. SH

Please JW

 _Why?_ SH

I don't even know if I want to _talk_ to him, Sherlock. JW  
I just want to go, see if he's okay. Scope out the situation, and _maybe_ talk to him. I don't honestly know. JW

You know he is okay. I just told you that he is. SH  
You want to go and talk to him. Interact with him. SH

Like I said, I want you with me. JW

I have nothing to offer you. Nothing. SH  
Take Harry. She knows much more about you than I do. SH

I want you there. For Christ's sake, I would really prefer it if you came with me. JW  
Do you want me to beg? JW

No, I want you to stop asking me and go and ask Harry. SH

Sherlock, _please_! JW

Tell me _why_. A real _reason_. SH

I. Need. You. There. JW  
[Delayed] I can't do this without you. And what happens if we start talking, and he starts to remember? What then? JW  
What the hell am I going to do? JW

Lie to him. Should be easy enough. SH

Come with me, and I will owe you a _massive_ favour. Whatever you want. JW

[Delayed] Fine, John. Fine. I will come with you, despite the fact that you have no reason for wanting me there. SH  
And I do not need a favour. There is nothing I want from you. SH

[Delayed] You are good company. You can read people as you can a book. JW

Apparently I cannot. SH  
At least I know this one's an alien. I've got an advantage already. SH

[Delayed] Did you see him? A photo, I mean? JW

Yes. SH

And? JW

And what? He looks like he's in his twenties. Blue eyes. Straight hair. SH

[Delayed] Family resemblance? JW

He's not got your nose. SH  
Or those bags beneath your eyes, although it is too soon to tell, I would imagine. SH  
The same jaw and chin, I think. SH

Bloody sod never used to sleep. Even as a baby, couldn't get that thing to close his eyes for five minutes. It won’t be surprising if he does get those bloody bags beneath his eyes. JW

Are babies not infamous for not sleeping? SH

Well, they _are_. Ours though, generally more behaved. JW

Apparently yours did not get the memo. SH

[Long Delay] You know, had it not been for the crash, he would have had a sister. JW

He's got two. SH

 _Biological_ sister. JW

Close enough. SH

 _Right_. JW

I wouldn't tell him that. SH  
Well. If I were you, I wouldn't. _I_ probably would. SH

He knew at the time, as did my wife. As did I. JW  
Although with amnesia, I assume that's all been wiped. JW

Lucky him, then. He seems close to his adoptive sisters. They are enough for him.SH

[Delayed] I'm glad he's happy. He deserves it. JW

Yes. Good for him indeed. He seems fine. SH

[Delayed] Medical school. Good on him; always been a bright kid. JW

There are plenty of idiot doctors. SH

True that, there are. JW

Tomorrow, then. Go to him tomorrow. SH  
Or tonight. SH

We'll go tonight. JW

I do have a murderer to catch. SH

And I have a son to find. JW  
The murderer can wait. JW

Your son is not going anywhere. SH

And yet, I feel this _need_ to go see him. JW

Of course you do. He is your child and you now know where he is. SH  
[Long delay] Fine. Tonight. SH


	2. Chapter 2

To say that John was utterly embarrassed, perplexed, exposed, apprehensive, terrified and utterly relieved would be the ultimate understatement. As calm as he'd seemed in his texts, his trembling hands were a sign that he was anything but. Since he'd taken his lunch break early after summing up enough courage to text his silent flatmate, he'd cancelled all further appointments for the afternoon as he sat in his office, his elbows propped against his desk as tense hands strummed over the touchscreen as he constructed his responses. But he could barely retain his composure, and how could he possibly try?

 

For in the space of less than three hours, he'd not only explained his most intimate biological and anatomical details (well, not  _all_ of them, but most), but he'd discovered that Sherlock  **had**  feelings for him. Hell, he'd discovered that his son was a medical student  _living_  and thriving in Whitechapel. All in all, it had been a fairly productive day, and they still had the night to contend with. He was at his wits end, and even then, he had no idea where to progress from here. He wanted to explore his feelings with Sherlock, but his instincts as a father were practically screaming at him to go seek out his boy and bring him back.

 

And he was completely, utterly lost as to what path he wanted  _or_  needed to take.

 

**Meet me at Baker Street in half an hour. We'll catch a cab. Case can wait. JW**

 

Pocketing his phone, it took him less than five minutes and four seconds to dart out of the clinic with keys and wallet in tow. He felt the telltale strain of the bindings around his leg that kept his tail firmly planted to his right thigh, and rubbed it through the fabric of his trousers as he sat through the ten minute cab ride back to the flat. The whole time, his mind was reeling with the possibilities of how tonight was going to actually go. He was desperate to be  _near_  Sherlock, and to strengthen that bond. On the other side, he wanted to just  _see_  his son. Hell, it was like something out of a terrible soap opera. Either way,  _something_  had to be done. Feelings had to be shared, things had to be explained and life had to be sorted.

 

Preferably, tonight.

 

**I look forward to seeing you. JW**

Sherlock had been lying to John about which Holmes brother located Sevran--Steven. Whatever it was that they were even supposed to refer to him as. Of course Mycroft hadn't been the one to locate him. It would have been incredibly unwise to ask his brother for help, given the fact that there was so much that was, to put it kindly,  _odd_  about John's son. Amnesia. No record of birth or hospital visits until he turned sixteen. A missing mother. A tail. They would have all been enough red flags to make Mycroft curious, and when Mycroft got curious, he got answers. That was why Sherlock had found the boy instead. He had told John that it was Mycroft so that he wouldn't go about  _thanking_  him, or saying, as he had, that he owed Sherlock a favour.

 

The only thing Sherlock wanted was a time machine, but as John hadn't used one himself to go back in time and prevent his wife from dying, Sherlock felt it safe to say that even the aliens had not yet accomplished time-travel.

 

Telling John about his feelings was something that Sherlock had done flippantly and immediately wished that he hadn't. It wasn't a good feeling, knowing that he was coming in third to John's wife and son. That may or may not have been how John saw it; Sherlock didn't know or care. It was how  _he_  saw it. Third to them and third to Harry and Mike Stamford. Sherlock couldn't understand why John had just--he couldn't understand why John  _hadn't_  told him. What did Harry have to offer that he didn't? Mike found out by accident, John had said--although Sherlock didn't know if he believed that or not--but it didn't make Sherlock feel any better about it. Not at all.

 

Despite his feelings of foolishness for not deducing what John was, for blindly trusting him, for being one of two who had only found out about him accidentally, for coming in last after his real family, for being bested in both the areas of observation and chemistry, that is, intellect in general, Sherlock pushed all of those insecurities aside. They were still there, but he walked into Baker Street wearing his black suit and shoes, purple shirt, and a look of pure serenity on his face.

 

"Hello," he greeted John, setting his suitcase down on he table beside his chemistry equipment. Sherlock didn't remove his coat or his scarf; instead, he just slipped his hands into his pockets and looked at the other man. "He is at Fourteen Scarborough Street. I suggest we leave now, before you have the opportunity to talk yourself out of it."

 

John had spent the past twenty minutes pottering around the flat, making preparations and keeping busy as he waited. He hadn't seen Sherlock for weeks. Three, lonely weeks of returning home from work and eating his dinner in isolation as he stared blankly at crap soaps in the tv; and it hadn't been fun. From time to time, he'd text Harry and they'd share a few highlights about their day, but nothing could stop Harry from seeming to be exceedingly standoffish. Stamford was another 'go to' that John could chat with, but Mike ever  _only_  wanted to discuss John's unique anatomical features. And hell, John couldn't blame him. John was an  _alien_ and Stamford was a man of medicine and science. The man would tell Mike what he could, but it often tended to get incredibly overwhelming when question after question came funnelling through.

 

Needless to say, John felt his entire body tense as he heard the typical footsteps of his friend ascend the stairs in the usual, energetic manner that he did. He had his back turned to Sherlock at the time; currently being in the process of patting down his suit trousers to ensure that his tail was firmly strapped down. The bindings had to be uncomfortably tight so it wouldn't protrude against the steam pressed fabric, but he was fortunate in that there wasn't an outline to be seen. And yes, he  _was_  wearing a suit. A full, black suit. Not his usual attire but he  _had_  promised Sherlock, and it was only fair that he keep his end of the bargain.

 

"Ah, you're here." He spun around on the spot, almost slipping on the kitchen floor as he staggered back and pressed his lower back against the kitchen counter. A moment passed where he couldn't find the words to say, but his heart felt to soften in his chest as he relished in moment. Sherlock was  _back_ , albeit even for a moment. He was looking at John with the knowledge that John wasn't human, and they were finally being honest with each other. Of course it was incredibly awkward, but at  _least_  they were moving forward.

 

"I mean, good. Brilliant. Nice to see you, you're looking... Well."  _Shut up, shut up. Stop rambling, shut **up**._

 

"Uh, yes. Right. Time to speak to my... Son." He nodded sharply, and crossed his hands over his chest and took a heavy breath. He was being odd, awkward and hewas  _well_  aware of that, but it was likely that Sherlock felt the same. "Yes, right." He coughed to clear his throat, but he still couldn't bring himself to leave. Did Sherlock want to leave first? He was starting to overthink these things, and he  _hated_  it. "Time we leave. We'll just go see how he is, go to dinner and the case. I, uh - I've got my gun." He tapped his suit jacket, and offered him a smirk. "Mind you, fits in my  _other_  jacket a bit better. Can't say I'm keen on wearing a suit but, ah, promises are promises, right?" 

 

Sherlock stared down at John, one eyebrow lifted in curious amusement. It was the way he normally reacted to John, so if he did anything else, now, it would be obvious. He didn't  _want_  to be obvious. It was odd to see John in a suit. And for what purpose? To go to Angelo's? They didn't normally wear suits when going to Angelo's. Sherlock did, but he wore them everywhere. John? Rarely. Not only was seeing John in a suit strange, but even more strange was seeing him futz about with his tail. John had always been so careful to make sure that Sherlock didn't find out about it, apparently, and he'd been successful, much to Sherlock's chagrin. Of course it made things more embarrassing, the fact that Sherlock was so goddamn hung up on not having deduced what John was. John was right, though--it would have been impossible for Sherlock to know. Who in their right mind (not that Sherlock was) would think their flatmate had a long, furry tail that they stuffed into their trousers? Really, who?  
  
"You did promise to wear a suit, yes," Sherlock said, slowly nodding his head. "However, I believe we will both look a bit ridiculous. I'm sure he will think that we dressed up only to go and meet him. Have you even thought about what you are going to say? You had best have a good reason to knock on someone's door and demand to speak with them." Sherlock cleared his throat and said, with no decency or tact whatsoever, "Perhaps you should try being truthful with him. I may be wrong, but I do believe people tend to appreciate that."  
  
Sherlock wet his lips. He knew that he needed to stop bringing up John's dishonesty, even though it wasn't in his nature to avoid saying what he thought simply to b kind. Still, nothing would come from him mentioning it again and again, over and over. All that would happen was that he and John would become more frustrated. John seemed to have moved on easily enough. And why wouldn't he? He was the one who had known all along. He was the one who had kept it a secret. He was the one who could trust Sherlock, not the other way around. Not now. If the option came up--however unlikely this was--who would John choose, his son, or Sherlock? Initially John had said that he didn't want to find his son; he had changed his mind only a few minutes later. As far as Sherlock understood it, that was common in parenthood.  
  
"You should stay with him," Sherlock said as he turned to walk back downstairs. "Answer his questions.Tell him what to expect. I can just as easily go to the zoo and find him. Alrik Lundquist is his name. Swedish, late thirties. I do fully intend to ask him why he chose the zoo, of all places, to hide in."  
  
Sherlock was rambling and he knew it. Even so, the words wouldn't stop, not until he was moving down the steps just as quickly as he'd come up them. The cab was still there, waiting for them as Sherlock had instructed, and he gave the driver the address. To meet John's  _son._ Jesus.

 

"I still do not know why I am being forced to come along. I have nothing at all to offer in this little reunion of yours. I will only get in the way."

 

"We would look a little ridiculous, wouldn't we?" Of  _course_  they looked ridiculous; it wasn't as though they were  _honestly_  going to go out for wining and dining before the case. John wanted to mentally slap himself for being so foolish, but he assumed that deep down, he was holding out for the inkling that tonight might have been a little bit 'fun', but that had been thrown under a bus when the revelation that his son was alive in  _London_  became fact. It had been a spanner thrown into the works and John felt desperate to explore whatever 'feelings' Sherlock might have had for his flatmate, but there was the issue of Stevran, or 'Steven', as he now preferred it. All of this was and had become chaotic; secrets were out, and John felt as though he'd majorly sodded it all up. And now, they still had tonight to get through.

 

"Truthful." John wasn't an idiot; he knew that was a quip targeted directly at himself, and it was no secret that he deserved it. So Sherlock was still mad, and likely would be for some time. Worse still, he was likely upset and fearful that he was getting pushed back behind Stamford, Harriet, and now - Steven. "Right. Truthful, yes? You don't need to keep bringing it up, Sherlock. I stuffed up. I  _screwed_ up." He felt the need to give a halfhearted chuckle, and he brought his hand up to his face as he clenched his eyes shut momentarily and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I made a sodding mess of our friendship, and it's a blow to the knees when you find out that I have a  _son_  - your age, might I add - who I plan on bringing back into my life."

 

_Right, because that's going to make him feel better_.

 

"I'm a liar, and a shocking friend. I won't deny that. I'll admit it. I'm a shockingly  _terrible_  friend." He ran fingers down his face and let out an ominous groan, and watched Sherlock intensely. "Forget this bloody case for a moment, alright? Let the sod hide amongst the flamingoes; okay? And for the record, I'm not  **forcing**  you to come with me. I'm asking you, because believe it or not Sherlock, I  _need_  you there. Do you understand that? I  **need**  you."

 

_Oh boy, here we go._

 

"This has all been a total cock-up and it's my fault. Okay? I accept that." He rasped. "I didn't even expect Mycroft to track down my son. I didn't think it possible, and now that he has - I'm stuck. I don't know what to do, because if I invite him back into  _my_  life, he's going to be in  _our_  lives. And before you say 'but I won't be here, because you have him' -  **shut up**." He poised a finger high to ensure that Sherlock remained quiet during his rant. "I have  _feelings_  for you. This 'bond' that I keep bringing up is a  _big deal_ ; it's permanent. I enjoy your company. I enjoy solving crimes with you. I hate the way you store fingers in the sink but hell, it's for science, right? And I respect that." He swallowed thickly, his heart starting to race. "You are  _not_  going to be replaced. My secrets are now your own, and I promise to be as upfront with you as I can. No more hiding, no more lies. Understand?"

 

He hadn't even realised that he'd been ranting from the journey in the flat, and all the way down into the cab. But as the cab rolled into life, John had both of his hands tightly clasped around Sherlock's own. "Love. That's what the bond is, yes? As corny as that sounds, that's what it is."

 

"And I  _need_  you to understand that."

 

_Focus,_ Sherlock told himself. He knew he couldn't let himself get swept away into John's sudden onslaught of emotion. This silly little 'bond' that he kept bringing up; Sherlock didn't even believe in it. He believed in the validity between aliens and other aliens--family members, sexual partners--but the fact that John had just suddenly mentioned it after Sherlock revealing that he had feelings for John, no. It was too convenient. It was a simple way for John to get what he wanted from him. A manipulative tactic and nothing more.

 

Christ. Was that why he suddenly felt so self-conscious, so vulnerable? So  _stupid_? Was John manipulating him? Was that even possible? It sounded possible. Sherlock, admittedly, knew very little about John's race, and he knew even less about the imaginary races found in science-fiction films and books (he had no interest in learning about them, either; he only cared about the facts--that hadn't changed). And it _was_  suspicious that John kept insisting that he drink wine, wasn't it? Either that or it was just Sherlock being...paranoid, of all things. He was Sherlock Holmes. He relied on facts and figures, not fears and fables. He wasn't supposed to get paranoid. Not about anything. And yet, here he was.  
  
'I'm a liar, and a shocking friend. I won't deny that. I'll admit it. I'm a shockingly  _terrible_  friend.' Sherlock could not have said it better. John was the only person that he had ever opened up to, the only person whom he had ever considered to be his friend, and then he came to discover that John wasn't even who he said he was. As a matter of fact, he had lied about more than he had told the truth about. He was a doctor in the army. There was that. But Harry? She was a lie. She wasn't his sister; she was just someone he knew, someone he had opened up to. If John developed a bond with anything, it would have been her, not Sherlock. Having a wife, formerly, having a  _son_. It was so much for Sherlock to wrap his head around and, even though it rarely happened, he was struggling with it.

 

"Obviously I do not understand why you need me there," Sherlock said simply. "Seeing as how there is very little that I will be able to do for you, it makes no sense at all. I cannot tell him anything about you or your species. I cannot provide emotional support to you. All I will be doing is standing there.  
  
"And for the record, John, you are not  _stuck_. There is nobody holding a gun to your head and forcing you to go and meet your child. You want to. It is what people do. Whether he is in  _your_  life or not--not ours, John,  _yours_ \--will remain to be seen. As I told you, he already has a family. Sisters. A mother and father. Probably a girlfriend. Friends. Perhaps even a  _pet_. I am sure he will not deny the opportunity to meet with you and talk with you, have you in his life to some degree, but it is not as if he is going to want to suddenly move in with you."  
  
Sherlock seemed to not notice John's hands around his own until the other man--or whatever the hell he was; the  _alien_ \--noticed. Sherlock moved his fingers, wrapping them around John's hands just because he wanted to see how it felt, physically. There was an uncomfortable in his tightness that rose up into his throat, and Sherlock knew it wasn't supposed to be there. It wasn't excitement, or glee. It was--something else. Something unpleasant. But, Sherlock took a moment and just focused on the feeling of John's hands. It was something he had always wanted to feel before and now he did it, just out of curiosity.  
  
And then he pulled his hands away.

 

"I have already told you how I feel about this 'bond', John. I do not feel it, therefore it means nothing to me. It is  _not_  a big deal. Not to me. Not anymore."

 

Sherlock turned his head and glanced out the window. They were driving past St. George's German Lutheran Church, which meant they were less than five minutes away from Scarborough Street. Less than five minutes away from John's son.

 

"I would suggest you use these final moments to come up with a good opening line. As they say, you make one first impression. Make it a good one."

 


	3. Chapter 3

Bloody hell, that sod could be stubborn. A moment of physical contact and he shut up, and John was  _certain_  that he could feel it. He even felt fingers loop tightly around his own as Sherlock explored the concept of  _connecting_  with another individual. Sherlock may have passed off this 'bond' as a stupid fad that John's species obsessed over, but what he didn't realise was that this  _bond_  was a biochemical connection that John had made in absence of his own wife. In a normal situation, a lifelong bond would be forged between between a husband and wife, and any subsequent children that followed. In the morbidly terrible situation where a bond was severed due to death, a depressing absence would _always_  be felt by those who had lost a loved one. It was rare enough for that hole to be filled (innuendo aside), but to John's knowledge it could **never** be shared with that of another species. Least of which, a species who remained so unaware of their true mental potential which would  _one day_  develop, but in time. But so it happened, that Sherlock had filled that gap, and that bond was stronger than ever.

 

"I'm sorry you feel that way." He let his hands fall to his lap, and tired eyes watched over Sherlock in pure frustration. This wasn't going to work if Sherlock didn't want to participate, and despite John's dire plea to Sherlock after presenting his case, it was futile. It was  _useless_. He was utterly convinced that John was going to palm him off after he returned to his duties as a father, and it felt as though no more chatter could convince him otherwise.

 

"Stop the cab." 

 

He was but five minutes away from his location, but he couldn't do it. He needed Sherlock, but if Sherlock saw this is as the beginning of the end, then John wouldn't do it. No matter how much he needed this, he couldn't. He even considered it to be selfish on Sherlock's part, but the man had to mentally remind himself that it was  _he_  who lied, and it was  _he_  who must suffer the consequences. Sherlock had done nothing but be concerned, and could John blame him? No. After all, he was only human. 

 

"I'm an idiot." He whispered beneath his breath, and clutched the handle of the door as the vehicle ground to a halt. "You're right. As per usual, you're absolutely right!" A chuckle, followed by a morbid bout of laughter that almost had him in stitches. "He's got a family, he's happy. He's going to be a doctor for Christ's sake!" He scoffed, and rubbed clenched hands in both eyes to stave off the hidden tears that he refused to let fall. "So how  **dare**  I interrupt all that for the sake of satisfying my own need to atone for my own mistakes. How  _dare_  I drag you into this, because clearly it's you or my son, right? Clearly, you can't possibly be a part of 'my' life.  _Clearly_ , you don't understand." He shoved the door open, and unclasped his seatbelt as he stepped outside and kept the door held open for a moment longer.

 

"For once in your life, stop trying to make this all about  **you**." He breathed, the hidden tears starting to sting at his eyes. "I genuinely wanted to have dinner with you tonight. I wanted you to come back to the flat. I wanted us to enjoy a case at some point, but I wanted you to take part in this because I  _love_  you." He paused. "And I wanted us both to share in this because  **you**  are my family, and so is he. But sod this." John frowned. "I won't throw this burden on you. I won't try to make you do something you're not comfortable with. Go back to Mycroft's. Go solve that case. Tell the authorities about me, I don't  _care_." 

 

In a flurry of movement, he slammed the door closed and began storming down the street with hands in pockets. To think this would have actually worked out made him feel naive and foolish, but this  _was_  Sherlock Holmes. To convince a brick wall to tag along would have been far, far easier and they would have been far more compliant.

 

"I wish you weren't such a sodding stubborn git." He sighed softly, his head shaking slowly from side to side as he walked.

 

Sherlock wondered if this was, now, all John's attempt at trying to guilt him into doing what he wanted. John was clearly passionate about finding his son, and even involving the boy--the man--in his life. Their life, according to John. Oh, and it was all  _his_  fault, was it? Clearly John had done _nothing_  wrong.  _Clearly_  it was all because of Sherlock that they were having these problems.

 

Sherlock would be the first to admit that he was selfish. He was a right bastard, cold-hearted, cruel, self-absorbed, arrogant, rude. And yet, this time, he felt that those things were all perfectly natural. He felt entitled to them. Justified. John expected him to just get over two years of lies immediately. Three weeks was not enough time. It was enough time for Sherlock to act like he was--well, no, apparently it wasn't. If it had been, they wouldn't be struggling like they were now.

 

John got out of the cab and Sherlock remained sitting in it. He had to think, just for a moment. If they didn't go and meet Steven now, John would regret it. Granted, he may also regret it if they did go, but they wouldn't know for sure unless they went. It went against every fibre of Sherlock's being, but he tossed the cab driver a tenner and then got out of the car, following after John. They were both hurting, obviously. They were both struggling with the enormous wedge that had been put in their friendship--by John, Sherlock immediately thought, but then he scolded himself for placing blame once more--and neither knew how to fix it.

 

What options did they have? They could both keep their feelings bottled up. That was what Sherlock had done his entire life. He repressed his emotions until it had become second-nature to him, to the point that it seemed he didn't even have any. That was how Mycroft was and Sherlock, as a young boy, had wanted to be exactly like his 'big brother'. Now that he had his work, he wanted to focus on it. He  _had_  done so until John had come into the picture. He still remembered telling John, their first night together at Angelo's, 'I consider myself married to my work.' It had taken over a year for Sherlock to realise that the cases weren't all he valued in his work anymore--he also valued his associate, his assistant, his blogger. More than he should have.

 

"John," Sherlock called, taking a few long strides in order to catch up with the other. "John,  _stop_. You are being just as selfish and just as dramatic as myself right now, and I will not have you blaming it all on me. I think you can admit that this behaviour--from  _both_ of us--is doing us no favours. Now, we are going to go and meet your son, get it  _over_  with, and then we can take the next step, no?" He paused, lifting his hands in a shrug of surrender. "Whatever that even is."

 

Sherlock turned his back and started to talk away from John, in the direction of Steven's home. "I am going with or without you," he told John. "I suspect you would prefer to be there with me when I tell him he's an alien, but, what do I know."

 

There was no doubt that this was difficult for the both of them. It would take time, Sherlock felt. They would both need time to accept the facts of the situation. John would need time to understand how hurt Sherlock was by it, how damn stupid he felt, and Sherlock would need time to accept that John was just...John. And that what had happened had already happened; carrying it around with him would do neither of them any favours. The only way to move forward was to forgive and forget.

 

Sherlock had never been good at that.

 

Why wasn't he leaving? Sherlock  _should_  have taken this as an opportunity to turn the cab around so he could head home, and he could thus spend the rest of the evening playing the violin in the comforts of Mycroft's affluent lodgings. John tensed considerably as a hand wrapped around his shoulder and brought him to a stop, and in moments Sherlock was standing before John, blocking his path. It was fair to say that John likely appeared to be an emotional wreck; tears were glistening behind his eyes, and his cheeks were red from the embarrassment of having to pour out his heart onto his unsuspecting friend in the cab. He'd certainly had better days. Both of them had.

 

But Sherlock was stepping up to the challenge of moving  _forward_. The next few days, weeks, months and possibly years were certainly going to be daunting, to say the least. Frustrations from John's stacking lies would likely come out from time to time, but emotions were going to be raging from here on in. And as per usual, Sherlock was right. The pair of them were both being selfish and overly dramatic. With or without John, Sherlock was going to see John's son; only made sense that the child's own  _father_  accompanied the detective along for the ride.

 

"Alright."

 

He slumped his shoulders as he turned heel and followed Sherlock, albeit incredibly reluctantly. He was nervous; he was  _terrified_. He only found strength in the fact that Sherlock was at his side, essentially forcing him to face his fears; ironic though, considering that only a short while ago, _he_  was the one who had been doing the convincing. "You're right. I apologise." He nodded sharply, and quickened his pace until he was walking side by side with Sherlock, his eyes scanning the empty streets as they walked. The weather was chilly and the sky was clear, but the streets were rather vacant; likely due to the fact that the roads were leading into far more residential areas as they strolled on through.

 

"We scope out the situation first. Nobody says  _anything_ , and we have to make sure that we speak to him  **alone**." He rummaged his fingers through his hair, and trailed fingertips down his face as he groaned softly in defeat. "He's always been a tough little thing, even since he was a little sprog. Until we find out just how bad his amnesia is, we won't know how bloody resistant he'll be to the truth."

 

_Sod it; if he's anything like me these days, it's not going to be fun._

 

"About what I said - what I've been  _saying_  about... Look, the last thing I wanted to do was make it awkward between us." He side-glanced at Sherlock, but kept his eyes on the footpath. "You've got to understand though, I  **miss**  you. The flat isn't the same without you. I mean, for Christ's sake - it's too  _clean_. Your little holiday away has given Mrs. Hudson the opportunity to do some proper dusting and if I'm to be honest, it's a little unnerving to actually see the polished surface of the coffee table. A bit of filth never hurt-" John hadn't even been given the chance to finish his sentence, for he'd walked straight into an innocent bystander who had happened to be standing by the bus stop. But it served John right for not looking as to where he was going.

 

"Oh,  _sod_." John scrambled to pick himself up from the floor, and he extended a hand out to the fellow who he'd barrelled into. "Bloody hell, my fault mate. Absolutely my fault. Here, let me grab your bag for you." He bent down to grab the shoulder bag (likely containing a laptop and what _felt_  like the weight of a textbook) to assist the light, fair-haired stranger, who still currently had his head down as he reached around to grab his phone, wallet and keys. "You alright?"

 

"Peak hour foot traffic in London." The man, clearly in his early twenties based on his slight lankiness and a slight youthfulness to his voice, still glanced down as he rummaged around for a few pens he'd dropped. "I'm used to it. Trust me, it's all fine." He chuckled, a grin appearing to form on his face as he pushed himself quickly to his feet with a small burst of energy. As blue eyes curiously glanced at John's own, he reached out to give him a friendly pat on the shoulder and reached out to gently grab his satchel from John's grasp. "I needed some excitement anyhow. Bus is twenty minutes late, so I'm late for my Pathophysiology lecture. You did me a solid mate, trust me." The young man's eyes were kind and his smile sincere as he chuckled softly to himself, and from time to time he'd run his fingers through his straight but slightly unkempt hair as he casually had a one-sided conversation with John. "Hey, are you alright? Look like you've seen a bloody ghost - you haven't been on the Tower of London tour, have you?" He scoffed. "Perhaps  _that's_ where I've seen you. You look terribly familiar, if I'm to be blunt."

 

John, however, couldn't bring himself to properly interact. He couldn't even move; he was in  _shock_. "Stev-" He paused, and shut his mouth.  _Try this again_. 

 

" _Steven_?"

 

The stranger - Steven - paused, with eyebrows raised. "That... Would be me. So we have met? Wait, wait - let me guess. Med-Ball last year? You're one of the blokes who works at the University, right?" He energetically jumped on the spot, but frowned. "No, no. That's someone else. Right, right - give me a moment. You-" He suddenly paused, his eyes hovering over to John's accomplice. "Oh,  _no way_. Mr Holmes? The detective?" His eyes lit up and a toothy grin followed suit. "I've got a friend in Law who  **hates**  your guts. Shame on him though, I think you're bloody brilliant. A bit of an arse from what I've been told, but  _brilliant_." He smirked. "Go on. 'Read me'. Keen to see how this psychological phenomenon of observation works. Might be good for when I do my psych rotation in the future."

 

"Do your worst, Sherlock Holmes."

 

At first, Sherlock was quite pleased. John was doing what he wanted--he was going to meet his son. It wasn't necessarily what Sherlock wanted to do, but at the same time...it was, wasn't it? He wanted John to meet his son because he knew that John wanted to. Even now, it seemed he wanted John to be happy. At least, with this. Sherlock didn't believe that John could or would be happy with him, now. Not after all the tension that was currently in their relationship (a term he used loosely). However, if John were to meet his son...it would make things much better for him, would it not?

 

In any case, Sherlock was glad that John was agreeing with him. Of course John had to take it upon himself to babble and ramble, telling him that the time apart had given Mrs. Hudson the opportunity to clean. Sherlock didn't actually like hearing that. Dust was eloquent. He had always felt that way. Returning home to a flat with no dust--and of course he had noticed it when he had been there before--wasn't an appealing idea to him. Sherlock wanted to do everything that he and John needed to do while they were out, now, while they were out. If they returned to the flat after, he wanted to ensure that he wouldn't feel the need to leave it for a while. After all, he would need to get his dust back into place. Not that he could.

 

John knocking into someone made Sherlock roll his eyes. Why couldn't the man--alien--simply watch where he was going? Why didn't he have antennae with eyes attached to them to show John where he was going at all times? Hell, maybe John  _did_  have antennae but simply hadn't shown Sherlock because he didn't want to be met with criticism. What if that was something he could hide, too, like his scales and fur? Sherlock thought the idea to be a bit absurd. After all, if he was going to insult anything, it would be John's silly tail, or even his pouch. Both of those he found quite odd. An extra set of eyes, however--especially ones that could swerve and see things from all angles--would be incredibly useful.

 

It didn't take Sherlock any time at all to realise who they were talking to. It was obvious to him right away, even if the hair and the inspiring blue eyes hadn't been there. The way the boy talked, the way he stood, the way he moved--everything reminded Sherlock of John. He didn't know how that was possible, really, given the fact that he had lost his father at a young age. However, it hadn't really been  _that_  long ago, had it? John said that he'd really served in the war, which meant that he'd been on earth, what? Five years? Ten, perhaps?

 

Not that it mattered, really. Sherlock certainly wasn't going to ask him, not right now. Not with John's son-- _John's son_ \--asking John why he looked familiar.

 

The boy was more of a talker than Sherlock had ever known John to be. He kept going and going, rambling on about this and that. His school lecture, his little friend, something or other about the Tower of London. Of course the only thing that caught Sherlock's attention was when Steven told him that he was 'bloody brilliant'. Naturally, Sherlock already knew that he was, but it was always a good thing to hear. He wasn't surprised to hear it from, of all people, John Watson's own son.

 

"It is not a psychological phenomenon," Sherlock corrected, his voice curt, his manner as brusque as ever. "I see and I observe." earing his own words vocalised, now, seemed to be mocking him. He scoffed and flicked his wrist. "There is very little to tell about you. Your mother still does your laundry. You have a pet cat; orange fur, only a kitten given the lengths of the hairs. You have a girlfriend or you have hugged one of your female friends or family members; I can tell because you are wearing a distinctive cologne but you also have traces of perfume wafting from the front of your shirt. Given your appearance and area of study, as well as the fact that it is a perfume marketed towards women of your age, I am going to assume that it was a girlfriend. You had a packet of biscuits for dinner or a snack; there are a few crumbs on your shirt. However, given your neat appearance, you are not the sort of man to wear dirty clothes, therefore you have not yet washed this shirt, probably because you only put it on recently. I can tell that by the strength of the cologne. No man carries cologne with him in his trouser pocket."  
  
There was nothing impressive there, and he could have gone on, but Steven had asked to be told about himself and Sherlock had complied. Now the detective looked at John.

 

"And what about you, John? You must have something to add, surely."

 

At first, there felt to be an uncomfortable silence between the trio, and the young man had this rather peculiar look on his face, as if he'd been given something akin to a compliment, or a very subtle insult. He glanced down at his shoes for a moment, but in a flurry of activity he clasped his hands together and began to chuckle. The grin off his face was from ear to ear and couldn't be wiped, no matter how hard he might have tried. Eventually his weak chuckle evolved to something of a heart chortle, and he had to take a moment or two to recompose himself. "My God, it's even more impressive in person." Steven nodded, his mouth still partly open from being purely impressed by Sherlock's deductive skills. "You got everything right. Bloody  _everything_  - oh, except for the fact that I don't get my mother to do my own laundry. I do. I might be a student but that doesn't automatically throw me into the category of one who might be incapable of cleaning his own clothes." He shrugged, seemingly enjoying their odd little quarrel. "Let's see, I  _do_  have a cat - my sister's cat, actually. Never been fond of the thing myself, but until me and my _girlfriend_  find a flat of our own..." He gave an approving nod to Sherlock; a hint that he'd also gotten the observation right about his relationship status. "I'm stuck with the bloody feline." He huffed. "And speaking of my  _girlfriend_ , we have a date tonight. Meeting after I push through a few hours at the library, hence the  _cologne_."

 

Whilst Steven prattled on, John found himself at a loss for words. All he could do was watch and observe as his son displayed similar mannerisms to both himself and to his biological mother. The child, despite clearly suffering from severe retrograde amnesia, was as similar (if not more mature) as he was from the day that the family had been torn apart. And it was heartbreaking, standing there and not being able to reach out and touch his son as a father would care for his offspring. Steven had  _no_  idea, but at the same time he seemed so happy. He had a girlfriend, an adoptive family who loved him, and was on the right track in terms of his education and career. He was funny, had a striking personality and regardless of bias, John considered him to be a well-looking lad.

 

_And yet, he has **no**  idea what's in store for him in the next few years._

_Or months._

 

"S-Steven, I-" John cleared his throat, and it was no secret that Sherlock was shooting him a glare, as if to say 'go on, you've been waiting for this'. "Well, this is hard. Do you, well-"

 

The younger of the three merely stood there and watched on curiously as John struggled to speak, his eyebrow slowly cocking in curiosity. "We've met before." He interrupted John, but his voice was laced with confusion. "You knew my name, and unless you've been stalking me - quite possible, although to be fair you don't seem to be the type - you know me."

 

"Steven,  _shut up_. You  _might_  want to sit down when you hear what I have to say."

 

Again, Steven looked confused. "Excuse me? Sit down? Mate, I've got a bus to catch and whilst I appreciate the little 'tarot card' display from your friend here-" He glanced at Sherlock, and returned a cautionary gaze back to John. "I have to say, I'm a little weirded out." He frowned. "Look, I accepted your apology. We both ran into each other through pure chance and it's all fine. For Christ's sake, it's fine. Not being rude, but I'd appreciate it if you'd just  _leave_." He flickered his gaze to Sherlock. "Both of you."

 

"How's the itching going?" Better to break the ice, John figured. They had so much to cover, and his son was already showing signs of retaliation. A sign of things to come, he thought.

 

"Pardon?"

 

"I'd imagine it's slowly creeping down your back, moving it's way around your ribs and slowly descending to your thighs, right?" John huffed, and finally, Stevan had shut up. "And there's this  _rash_ , probably starts off looking like a bruise and either it starts feeling hard and with a rough texture, or you get a rather bizarre spurt of hair growth." 

 

The younger looked incredibly concerned, and pursed his lips together momentarily in thought. "How the  _hell_  did you..."

 

"Ah, and assuming that you haven't had your pouch surgically closed up, I suspect that with your medical knowledge, you'd know to keep it **clean**. The acidity of the sac itself is important; a pH of 3.9 is fairly standard for adequate homeostasis and to ward off any nasty infections." Based on a very faint nod and widening eyes from the boy, John knew that he certainly had his attention. "And then there's your tail. And  _yes_ , I know. Don't bother denying it. Should still be hairless at this point, right? But itchy." He huffed. "I can even tell you  **where**  your birthmark is. Base of your tail, and there's a bit of scar tissue on your left-"

 

"Enough!" The medical student looked as though he were on the verge of passing out, and he gripped the pole of the bus-sign tightly for support as he waved away John with his free hand. "You need to... You need to stay away from me. You've been stalking me." Stevan nodded sharply, and pointed his gaze to Sherlock. " **Both**  of you!"

 

"Stevr- Steven, I'm sorry. I really am." John looked incredibly sympathetic, and his guilt began to engulf his heart. "But right now, it's best you come with us and we -  _I_  can explain everything, from what you're going through to what  _will_  happen to you. We'll sit down, have a bit of tea and I'm fairly sure there's a few week-old biscuits we can try to salvage from the kitchen."  _Great selling point, John_. "Point is, and given your anatomical 'abnormalities', I'd imagine you've been trying to track down your birthparents. I can help you.." John paused. "I can help you find them, or, one of them. But for the sake of the argument, it's best you accompany us back to Baker Street." John flickered his attention to Sherlock, and frowned. "I think that's best, don't you?"

 

As Sherlock had predicted, he felt incredibly out of place. Steven's praise at his deductions did help to negate that for a while, but eventually the feeling of being very much a third wheel returned. Sherlock found himself wondering if he would have felt the same way if it had been John praising him. Sherlock had lived for that ever since John had called him amazing and extraordinary on the night of their first case. It had stayed with him over the years, always encouraging him even if he wasn't consciously thinking about it. Just the knowledge that John believed those things about him had been marvelous.

 

'That...was amazing. It was extraordinary, it was  _quite_  extraordinary.' At the crime scene, later, John had told him, 'That's fantastic!' when he had deduced numerous things about the dead woman, Jennifer Wilson. Sherlock remembered details about all of his cases, but this one was especially memorable because it was the first one that John had assisted him with. Of course now Sherlock wondered if John hadn't known who the killer was the entire time, what with his apparent  _genius_ -level intellect.

 

A part of him felt like he should be happy for John. Being smarter than Sherlock Holmes was quite the accomplishment. The only person on earth who had been able to claim the achievement thus far had been Mycroft. If John really was more clever than him, was he smarter than Mycroft, too? That wasn't as important to Sherlock as knowing that, for all his intellect, there was someone else out there better than him. At least with Mycroft, Sherlock had always known that the other man was more clever. With John, Sherlock had spent their years together calling John an idiot, teasing him, sighing and rolling his eyes whenever he was asked to explain things that John hadn't been able to follow along with or piece together on his own.

 

The knowledge that John may have only been humouring him the entire time made Sherlock's chest tighten. The man had his pride and it felt like that was now  _all_  he had. John had said that he hadn't been secretly laughing at him for not knowing about his alien-status, but how was Sherlock supposed to believe that? After John had lied about everything else--nearly everything else, anyway--how could Sherlock know for certain that he wasn't lying about this, too? Because John was good and kind and wouldn't do such a thing? Sherlock nearly scoffed at the thought. It seemed to him that John would do whatever he pleased. He was finding it difficult--not, not just difficult; right now he was finding it impossible--to not be bitter towards the other man. He was keeping his mouth shut, gritting his teeth to keep from saying the wrong thing, and he listened as John and Steven interacted.

 

John was already taking on the role of a father once more. He seemed to slip into it immediately. Obviously he was comfortable with his son despite not having seen him for years. He knew exactly how to handle him, how to get his attention and make him listen. John wasn't a shy man and now was no exception. He obviously believed he knew what was best for Steven (and Sherlock agreed; not telling the boy what he actually was would have bordered on cruel; ironically, that was exactly what John had done to Sherlock). Steven, too, seemed to realise that he needed to go with this strange man whom he had only just, officially, met. At least, for the first time in years. The first time that he could remember, anyway.

 

Sherlock remained silent until John finally addressed him. He smiled politely, the corners of his lips turning upwards, but they immediately dropped into his perpetual scowl.

 

"Of course that is for the best," he agreed. "Tea, week-old biscuits, and a discussion about where you come from and what you are. Really, I can think of nothing better."

 

There were actually many, many things that Sherlock could think of that were better, but he knew that John would want him to be there. He didn't know  _why_  that was the case. After all, he wasn't being useful here and now. What exactly was his purpose? To stop Steven if the boy tried to attack John? To catch Steven if he tried to go to the police? Was that why John had needed him? Surely it wasn't for emotional support. _Surely_  John knew better than to ask Sherlock Holmes, of all people, for such a thing.

 

Either way, Sherlock was already walking. They were close to the main road and he hailed a cab, sliding into the back seat. He wasn't looking forward to being crammed in the back with Steven and John, but at least all three of them were slim and John was vertically stunted. Besides, it beat waiting for and taking a bus any day.

 

As the other two men got in the cab, Sherlock pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and checked his emails, desperately hoping for a case that would catch his eye, something better than the normal 'I set down my keyring/necklace/phone/ring and now I can't find it'. As usual, there wasn't anything. There never was when he needed something--which just so happened to be always.

 

The silence was welcoming and it left John with a few moments to recollect his thoughts and focus on the situation at hand, but the awkwardness had left a thickening tension that lingered in the cab. He hadn't been sure  _how_  it had occurred, but somehow he'd ended up closest to the window, and his lanky offspring had been wedged somewhere in between himself and the detective. It didn't help that these cabs weren't designed for space or comfort, and he could practically  _feel_  the apprehension seethe from Steven like radiating heat. This wasn't good for anyone involved, and the guilt still lingered in John's heart. All the kid had wanted to do was to head to university and carry on with his normal life; hell, he was even going on a  _date_ , but plans had changed.

 

Pale blue hues stared blankly at the window and John fought against any and all impulses to just turn and  _stare_ at his son, or give a quick look at Sherlock to see how he was doing amongst all this chaos. The mere fact that he was but a hairs breadth away from his offspring tore open a new pain in his heart, but what could he do? He couldn't reach out and hug him. He couldn't even give him a fatherly pat on the shoulder as he used to. But worse still, he couldn't have the liberty to just openly chat with him at this very moment.

 

He could feel Steven start to shuffle beside him, and a hand brushed by his leg. A quick glance over revealed that the boy had simply been looking for his phone, and had been in the process of swiping through his contacts before pressing the device to his ear.

 

"Hey, hey - it's me." He had tried to sound so  _calm_ , but even John could pick up the slight nervous undertones in his voice. "Yeah, look - I'm fine." The young adult peered cautiously at Sherlock, and flickered his eyes over to John. "Uh, no. I don't think I'm going to make the lecture; bloody bus didn't turn up. I  _know_ , that's London's public transport system for you." A chuckle, but restrained. He was nervous. "Listen, Sam. We'll have to postpone the date tonight. It's nothing serious, it's all fine -  _No_ , I've not been abducted by a Mexican Drug cartel." The sounds of a young woman with a heightening shrill voice could  _just_  be heard in the small cab, but based on the student's look of detest for any form of confrontation with his girlfriend, he sighed heavily and threw in his best efforts to keep her fears at bay. "No, no. Even better. Sherlock Holmes and the odd bloke who tags around with him."

 

John's eyes lit up and he went to interject, but a hand reached out as Steven splayed his palm out for a moment to silence any future input from the frustrated father.

 

"Yeah, I  _know_." He scoffed, and Steven pressed the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he pulled his rucksack onto his lap. "Look, Sam - if I don't call you by ten tonight, call the police. You got the name down? Sherlock Holmes, and his  _live_ - _in_." A bit of input could be heard from this 'Sam', and Steven simply sighed heavily, and ran a free hand down his face. "You want to know the strangest part? Yeah, they  _know_." A stay of silence followed, and Steven was now staring attentively at John. "My - yeah. And, yeah, that to." He swallowed thickly. "No, they just want to **talk**. Something to do with my birth parents 'apparently'. Yeah, I know, and  _no_  - they're  _strange_. Look, I just need you to know where I'll be. Look him up, his address is on his website. Okay, talk to you soon. Love you." Hanging up, he let his phone fall onto his lap.

 

"Steven, you're not being  _abducted_." John, now glaring at Steven; taking opportunity given that Steven was now looking at him. "Both myself and Sherlock believe it's best. If you want to leave, you can leave but in all fairness I think you need to hear what we have to-"

 

"No. Shut /up/. You barge into me, which isn't the issue - and start telling me that you know  _all_  about my...  _Secrets_." Steven looked utterly livid. "Not even my own  **parents**  and sisters know about my 'issues'. Granted, Sam does, that's neither here nor there. The fact is that you  _know_ , and there's no possible way that you could have known  _unless_  you somehow stalked me into my own  _shower_!" He scoffed. "And for the life of me, I can't figure it out! Do you know how bloody  **meticulous** I am at keeping my secrets at bay? There's no  **possible**  way that you could have known. None whatsoever, and I don't care if you're bunking with Sherlock bloody Holmes - there's no way  **he**  could have known either!" He sighed heavily, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't need more people knowing that I'm a... Freak."

 

"Steven,  **relax**. Keeping going the way you're going, and the cab driver's going to know." John whispered, his tone slightly clipped. "Now, you're not a freak. Not to me, alright?" This time, he threw caution to the wind and reached forward to clasp his hand on Steven's shoulder, and gave it a familiar squeeze. "Not to me, not to Sherlock and obviously not to your girlfriend."

 

"But  _why_  the hell do you  **both**  know? You said you know something about my parents, right?" A flicker of hope glinted in his eyes. "You know them? You know where they are?"

 

_Of course I know you._

 

"That's what we're going to talk about." He let his hand slip from Steven's shoulder, and peered over at Sherlock. "Both of us, with you. Plus, tea and biscuits."

 

"I thought you said they were a week old." Steven retorted, even going so far as to offer up a weak smirk. "Look - I just hope you know just how much trust I'm placing in  **both**  of you. The  _only_  reason I'm going is because you mentioned my parents. My  _biological_  parents." As if on cue, the sounds of wheels grinding to a halt gave Steven the insight that they'd arrived at their destination, and John was already reaching over to hand the cabbie a tenner. "And if this  **is**  a sodding attempt at some sort of abduction, don't forget - I've got my girlfriend poised to call the police if need-be, understood?"

 

John scoffed, and merely rolled his eyes. "Oh for heaven's sakes, just get out of the cab.  _Now_."

 

To his credit, Sherlock knew that it would look inappropriate, him smirking the entire ride back to 221B. Or at least, from the time that John and Steven started talking until they arrived. Steven was very much like his father; Sherlock had to admit that. They were both hard-headed and stubborn, neither liking to be told what to do or to be talked down to. Sherlock, of course, was the same way. Ironically, it had always helped he and John get along better. Up until three weeks ago, anyway.  
  
Sherlock would never forget that day. He had received a telephone call from Lestrade; the man had been telling him about a new case that he had, some psychopath who was forcing people to eat themselves to death--literally--and of course Sherlock hadn't been able to resist. He'd had a bit of a dry spell with his cases, anyway, and one that was so gruesome and shocking was right up his alley. After shouting at John, who was upstairs in his room, and receiving no response, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to dart upstairs and wake the man, interrupt his masturbatory session, or tell him to get out of the shower. Obviously he was doing something that made it impossible for him to hear Sherlock, or he was doing something that made him want to simply ignore the detective.

 

Nothing could have prepared Sherlock for what he saw. Nothing except the prior knowledge that alien life existed,  _and_  that his flatmate was part of such a species. Unfortunately, Sherlock hadn't known either. He opened the door and burst into John's room, not bothering to knock--cases came before decency, after all (most things came before decency, in Sherlock's mind)--and his eyes immediately fell on his flatmate.

 

His flatmate who didn't look anything like himself.

 

Scales. Fur. The  _tail_. The former appendage had held Sherlock's attention the longest, just because--well. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe because it was moving, flicking from side to side as Sherlock entered and then stopping as soon as he was actually in the room and John had realised it. For a brief moment, they had just stared at one another. John had gone on to say something (at least, Sherlock thought, now, that he had; he hadn't heard it then and he couldn't piece together what John may have said even now), but Sherlock was still staring. 

 

 

 

 

When Sherlock had been able to move again, he had blinked. Then he had turned and left  _quickly_. The man who was making people eat themselves to death--The Stuffer, he'd been dubbed--had been forgotten. He had walked around London until the sun came up the next morning. He didn't have a clue where he was because he hadn't been paying attention. Although he saw people walking by, and subconsciously made observations both about them and about his location, he hadn't been consciously focusing on them. He hadn't been able to get the image of John out of his mind. Whenever he tried to forget about it, or delete it, it immediately returned.

 

At least there was some comfort in the fact that the initial shock had, at long last, worn off. Sherlock was stilled stunned and confused, but at least he wasn't like he had been, eyes wide and mouth gaping open. Now he was back to his witty, curt self. He didn't feel very brilliant next to John anymore, but at least Steven seemed to find him so.  _That_  was a strange thought in and of itself, both that John was smarter than him (or so Sherlock believed) and that Sherlock actually  _liked_  something about John's son. The detective had never been fond of children, so it also helped that Steven was a young man, rather than an infant in nappies toddling about. If that had been the case, Sherlock would have been even more against going with John to meet him than he had been.

 

Sherlock led the way into 221. Mrs. Hudson was back for the evening, it seemed, and she came out of her own flat with her hands still wet from doing the dishes. She had an enormous smile on her face, as she usually did, and she had just opened her mouth to tell them all about her Bingo prize--fifty pounds or more, Sherlock guessed, given the pure state of  _ecstasy_ in which she appeared to be--when Sherlock met her eye and shook his head.

 

"Not really the time, Mrs. Hudson," he warned. Even though she looked disappointed, she crossed her arms over her chest and nodded, sighing. Before walking upstairs, Sherlock caught her eye and smirked. "And congratulations on your winnings."

 

Steven, Sherlock noticed, remained closer to him than he did to John. That was probably due to the fact that it was John, not Sherlock, who he found to be off-putting. John was the one who kept talking to him; John was the one who suggested that Steven come with them back to Baker Street in the first place. Although both John and Sherlock were known for their work with the Met, it was Sherlock who really had his name talked about. John was merely his shadow, the one who ran after him and provided assistance where and how Sherlock needed it.

 

Now, Sherlock wondered if those roles should have been reversed, if John was as clever as Sherlock was making himself think that he was.

 

Once they were in their portion of the flat, Sherlock went to the fridge and got out one of John's beers. Then he crossed the room and lowered himself right down into his chair.  _He_  certainly wasn't going to do the talking. This was John's son. John's species. John's responsibility. Sherlock still couldn't fathom why John had insisted that he be there, although a new guess had entered into his mind--maybe John only wanted him there to make him look foolish. Maybe he felt that Sherlock deserved a bit of comeuppance for always treating him like a simpleton.

 

Despite how many times Sherlock told himself that John Watson would never do such a thing, there was always another voice telling him,  _but he's not_ really _John Watson._

 

Not that John Watson Sherlock had thought he'd known.

 

Steven was looking at everything from his position in the center of the room, from the books on the shelves to the buffalo skull that hung on the wall; to the human skull on the mantle and the sheep's eyes piled up in the sink. The flat smelled of both cinnamon and formaldehyde, a smell that Sherlock only noticed now because he hadn't been in the flat for three weeks, save stopping in it for only a moment to collect John.

 

"If I wasn't here under such..." Steven trailed off, waving his hand, frustrated. "If I wasn't here under such  _weird_  circumstances, I'd actually be thrilled. I've always wanted to see what this place looks like, but I've never had enough of a mystery to interest you. I've heard you only take the hardest ones, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock's only response was a bored hum, prompting Steven to continue. The young man looked at John with an expression that plainly said, ' _Well?'_.

 

"Are you going to tell me what this is all about, then? What do you know about my birth parents? And whatever it is,  _how_ do you know? How did you know all that stuff about  _me_?"

 

There had been an evening ray of light that had pushed through the dirty window glass and had highlighted the dust hovering effortlessly in the air. John had found himself transfixed on such a novelty, but his son's reasonable demands as to an explanation were lingering and the alien didn't feel it fair to leave the boy hanging. He'd been waiting over a decade of his life to reconnect with his offspring and had always had an outpouring of hope that Stevran was always alive and well with thanks to the biological bond that he shared. And now, here they were. Sitting across from each other as if his own son was a client with a nearly unsolvable case.

 

"Stevran." He curled his fingers around the ends of his armrests, his tension rising within. Time was of the essence and sensitivity was key. This moment had been a long time coming and whilst he could never have envisioned that he'd have a friend so trustworthy as Sherlock by his side (Sherlock's reluctance was duly noticed, of course), it was far greater than just bursting out the truth in the middle of the street and having the boy take off into the afternoon. But the way John saw it, he had one solid shot to get this right; one solid chance  _not_  to scare his boy off and back to his family.

 

Or worse, the police.

 

"Stevran is your name, by the way. The name your mother gave you at your birth." His grip tightened, and the feeling in his chest grew deeper as he struggled to steady his breathing and keep up the facade of his falsified confidence. Blue eyes studied Stevran's own with a fleeting intensity, but he could  _tell_  that he'd certainly piqued the boy's interest. He could  _tell_  that the name bore some significance and familiarity to the boy, and so the student kept silent. He didn't argue, he didn't protest; he merely listened.

 

"I  _know_  there's a huge chunk of your life that you can't recall; likely around the time you were adopted, right? You were plenty shorter then. Bit rounder in the face, and you had a  _terrible_  haircut, but I'd be so bold to blame your mother on-"

 

Stevran inched his chair forward, and his distaste for John's waffling was clear. "Please, get to the point."

 

"Ten years ago, you were adopted. Heaven's knows where you were found but I'd say it was somewhere on the outskirts of Bristol." John would often glance nervously at Sherlock, having felt a constant twinge of guilt each and every time that he brought up a few shred about his life that he hadn't yet discussed with Sherlock. It almost felt like a sense of betrayal to their friendship, and given that John had kept Sherlock in the dark for so long... Perhaps it was. "You likely looked like a young teen at that time, but you're only just starting to come into your maturity now." He swallowed thickly, and straightened his back. "Tell me, Stevran, how old do you think you are?"

 

Silence followed, and the boy appeared to be stilted at being put on the spot.

 

"Stevran." John repeated, his tone going cold. "How  _old_  do you-"

 

"I'm twenty one." The boy finally spoke up, but he was looking at his feet. And John had been 'practicing' with Sherlock long enough to know that he was showing clear signs of uncertainty, and certainly fear. "I've always had a bit of a kid's face, and if I had a pound for each and every time I'd get carded before buying alcohol-"

 

"Thirty five." John stated that number with enough certainty to come across as incredibly convincing, and the boy merely stared. "Technically you're still an adolescent; explains why you look so..."  _Don't say human, don't say human_. "It explains why you're only starting to itch, but the rashes are a sign of things to come." His fingers intertwined and he felt incredibly uncomfortable by putting his son on the spot on such a way, especially with Sherlock sitting there in the room and casually observing. "That 'pouch' I referred to earlier on, I mentioned before about keeping it clean, yes?" As if on cue, Stevran brought up his hand and brushed his fingers over his shirt, as if dusting off crumbs.

 

"I still don't understand how you could possibly know about-"

 

"As you... 'Come into your own', it's going to start feeling incredibly tender and sore. You might see a bit of blue discharge pool at the base, but unless you're planning on having a family I  _suggest_  you clean it out when-"

 

"Oh my  **God**." The boy looked absolutely livid, and pushed up out of his chair and ruffled his fingers through his hair as he energetically paced. "I think I understand now. Oh, it makes perfect sense!" He began to chuckle, and stopped to a halt as he swivelled around on his heels and clapped his hands together mockingly. "You're implying that I'm some sort of 'alien', correct? ET? I suppose you think I'm just your regular-day Clark Kent, right? And, and-" He poised a finger high, a grin fixed to his mouth. "Let me guess, you're my 'father', right? I mean, how else would you know so much about my body? That, and you know about my  _birthmark_  for Christ's sake. Not even my  _girlfriend_  knows about that!" His tone appeared to be utterly incredulous at this point, but he wasn't finished. "Either that, or a weirdo who's obviously trying to profit from my deformities. You and your..." He gestured to Sherlock. "Partner."

 

John's frown deepened and he could see the defiance in his son that he initially feared would come through. But he'd come  _so far_  and he wasn't prepared to just let this all slip away because a boy didn't fare well with the alleged truth.

 

"Stevran,  **shut up**  and  **sit down**!" John roared, now having pulled himself to his feet and he stared point plank at his son. "You know what? You're absolutely right. Spot on, actually. I  _am_  your  **father**." He snapped, and he stepped further towards his son until he literally had him backed up against a wall. "It's scary, I get it. You don't want to hear the truth, because this really  _does_  throw a damper into your day and I'm  _sorry_  for that, but the fact of the matter is that you are  **not**  like everyone else, and you are different. You are like me, because we are related." He rasped. "So stop acting like the child that you are - just for a moment - and sit down and  _listen_  because I do  **not**  want to have to repeat myself. Is that clear?"

 

Stevran, being in the situation that he was, had eyes widened and his little tantrum clearly had come to an end. But he was  _terrified_ , and John's temper wasn't exactly soothing the situation.

 

With John's back slightly turned to Sherlock, he heaved in and out with trepidation as he looped his fingers beneath the hem of his jumper and short, and rucked them up without a second thought. Since living with Sherlock he'd retained  _some_  of his proud musculature that he'd received from years of army training, but he wasn't stripping off to show Stevran his 'abs'. Instead, he hiked it up high enough to the point where a red, somewhat inflamed looking line could be seen that extended from one side of his chest to the other, and sat just below his pectorals. At first, it almost appeared to be just a simple line of scar tissue - but John placed a hand atop it and began to part skin away from skin until a small shred of moist flesh could be seen.

 

Needless to say, the boy was stunned speechless but merely nodded at the sight of it, and pushed away from the wall and plopped himself back down into the client's chair. John, still standing there foolishly with his clothes hiked up to beneath his chin, turned around to peer at Sherlock. "On the off chance that you  _want_  to look, now's your chance. I promised you no more secrets, and I'm not about to break that promise now."

 

"And Stevran." He looked at the frazzled boy who now had his head in his hands as he appeared to be hunched over on the chair. "Just, take a deep breath. Take it all in, and  _relax_."

 

There was very little that Sherlock could do here and now, besides putting himself into Steven's--or Stevran's, whichever name he was going to go by--shoes. Sherlock Holmes never took it upon himself to be empathetic. It went against everything that he had been taught as a child, by Mycroft. 'Caring is not an advantage'. 'Logic and reason; those are the only two things you need to solve any problem.' For the most part, Sherlock had found that to be the case, time after time again.

 

John had come along, then, and Sherlock had found it difficult to continue keeping himself detached. At least, he had found it difficult to continue keeping himself detached from _John_. It had been fairly easy to keep everyone else at bay. However, considering that he lived with the doctor, it was only natural that he would be influenced, if only slightly. John was influenced by him, too. Whereas Sherlock learned about human nature, John learned about deductive reasoning. Personally, Sherlock believed that John was getting the better end of the deal, but he had always kept his thoughts about it to himself. Sherlock still wasn’t an empathetic creature, but at least he knew the process of how to _pretend_ to be.

 

Sherlock _did_ look when John turned around and showed off his…pouch. Although, ‘showed off’ implied that John was proud of it, and the doctor didn’t appear to be. Getting him to talk about it over text had been like pulling teeth. Now that Sherlock could see it, he couldn’t deny that he was a bit intrigued. The closest thing that Sherlock could think to compare it to was a vaginal opening. While the idea of John carrying offspring inside his body _was_ a off-putting to him, Sherlock knew that it was only because he had been conditioned to believe that it was impossible for men do such things. However, he had done a bit of research and found that the closest thing seemed to be seahorses, scientific name _Hippocampinae_ , rank, genus. The males and females would do a courtship dance and then the female would put her eggs into the male’s pouch, where they would be fertilized and gestate.

 

Researching seahorses, of all things, had made Sherlock feel more than a little foolish. After all, he did not often take it upon himself to learn about things that weren’t directly related to his cases in some way or another. By the loosest standards, seahorses _were_ related to his cases. Seahorses were like John; John worked with Sherlock, Sherlock solved the cases. That was the connection.

 

Sherlock was only drawn out of his thoughts when he heard Stevran inhaling shakily from where he sat in his chair. Sherlock knew what he was going through, at least in regards to finding out something life-changing. Something that he would have preferred to not ever have been told. The boy was beginning to shift in his seat until he finally stood up and resumed his pacing, fighting the urge to hyperventilate.

 

“No,” he insisted, shaking his head and gesturing towards the chair, as if the piece of furniture itself had somehow affronted him personally. “No, I can’t—I can’t sit. I can’t sit. How do you expect me to just—no.”

 

The look on the younger man’s face told Sherlock everything that he needed to know. Stevran was aware that John was telling the truth, logically, but he couldn’t believe it all the same. It was too shocking, too— _impossible_. And even if it _was_ possible, that wasn’t to say that Stevran would even want it. If Sherlock had learned that he was capable of actually carrying and gestating children, that he was going to grow fur on his tail (which he shouldn’t even have), then he, too, would be opposed to those things, regardless of how inevitable or _normal_ they were.

 

“Your father,” Sherlock spoke up, deciding to call the doctor as such because it would further cement the idea in the boy’s mind, “does seem to have a difficult time understanding how difficult this is for _us_ to understand.” Stevran nodded earnestly and Sherlock looked at John, clearly gloating to have John’s own son on his side. “If it is any consolation at all—which I cannot imagine that it will be—I have only just found out about all of this myself. Three weeks ago, granted, but three weeks has not been nearly enough time for me to accept it. I even have it far more easily than you do. You have to _live_ it. I simply have to live _with_ it.”

 

Stevran looked between Sherlock and John. He pointed a shaking finger at the two of them. “You mean you two…you aren’t…”

 

“Partners?” Sherlock snorted. “We most certainly are not.”

 

Was that cruelty, speaking so tersely wasn’t a relationship and it had never been one. John had always, always, _always_ said that he wasn’t gay, and if the truth be told, Sherlock wasn’t either. He had never done anything with _anyone_. He had never wanted to.

 

Not until he’d met John.

 

Of course Sherlock had never spoken about his feelings for multiple reasons, the first and foremost being that he wasn’t the sort of man to open up. Bloody hell, he rarely even talked about his childhood  and youth or his own personal likes and dislikes. The thought of telling John that he had entertained the fantasy of reaching over and taking his hand in his own while they sat through one of those ridiculous James Bond films had only abruptly flashed through his mind before Sherlock had shooed it off. They got along perfectly as flatmates and colleagues. Why would he have risked ruining it by bringing up something that could never be?

 

That was the sole reason why Sherlock had mentioned it only a few hours ago. He felt that they were already ruined, so why not take the plunge?

 

Even if John _was_ sexually and romantically interested in men, Sherlock wasn’t. That would probably bring about some difficulties in the relationship. As he had told John, he preferred men simply because he seemed to get along better with them, generally, but that didn’t at all mean that he wanted to _sleep_ with them.

 

Just John.

 

Even if John was a woman, Sherlock would have been interested because it was _John_. Genitalia, really, had nothing to do with it.

 

Greater than that, though, was the fact that Sherlock didn’t _do_ relationships. He never had. He wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how to please a partner or how to act in a way that was ‘proper’. The question remained, too: even if he _did_ know the proper way to act, would he act that way? Or would he act the way he always did, aloof and selfish, cold and, one could say, neglectful? He wouldn’t ever go on dates. He wouldn’t do anything romantic. He wouldn’t be _sweet_. He would be exactly the same as he always was but with added sexual intercourse. Surely no normal person would want to be in a relationship like _that_.

 

That raised a curious question, and Sherlock looked away from John to his son. How would this ‘Sam’—Samantha, Sherlock assumed—take the knowledge that her boyfriend was an alien? Would he even bother telling her? If he was going to start developing the fur and the scales, surely he would _need_ to.

 

“Why are you telling me this now, then?” Stevran asked, looking to his…father, as John seemed to have all of the answers. God, his _father_. He had a father already. He was a chef, a wonderful man and a great husband and father who adored all three of his children. Stevran loved him. This man, Sherlock Holmes’s live-in assistant…he was only a _stranger_.

 

“You said the itching and the rashes are only signs of things to come. You said…you said that my—my tail should still be hairless at this _point_. What does that mean?” He cleared his throat, doing his best to maintain his composure as he held onto the back of his chair, his fingers drumming against it. “What’s going to happen to me?”

 

John couldn't believe it, but there he stood as witness to Sherlock encouraging John's own flesh and blood to side with the detective by using fear as a valid motivator. It was unfair, it was cruel and if John hadn't been desperately seeking forgiveness for his dishonesty, he would have lodged a verbal retaliation to defend what little dignity that remained. But he couldn't, and he wouldn't. There'd be no point in voicing his clear distaste in the unusual angle that Sherlock was taking in making his frustrations extremely clear, for Sherlock wasn't the kind who would simply budge at John's every whim. On the contrary, he'd find an excuse to belittle Watson just to prove a point.

 

But couldn't he see that John was truly  _trying_  to mend the shattered remains of what was once a stable friendship? Granted, John had made mistakes and the persistent reminders from his peer were unnecessary, for he knew he was in the wrong. He had lied about aspects of his past, and he'd omitted to the truth that essentially shaped his being. And while at first he was initially under the assumption that Sherlock was more fearful of what he'd seen that fateful day when he'd barged into John's room unannounced, he'd realised by about the second week that Sherlock felt emotionally betrayed. And considering that Sherlock didn't seem like the type to be so easily hurt, John had messed up.

 

There'd been no doubt about it; he'd screwed up  _badly_.

 

Letting the woollen overlay of his jumper and his cotton shirt fall down over his  _be'cha'_ (loosely translated to 'carriage' but in anatomical terms it was his  _gestational sac_ ), he brushed down the material to smoothen out the creases. He felt so helpless by watching Stevran practically have an emotional meltdown, and being a once doting father on his child, to watch and not being able to help was utterly heart wrenching. He wanted to reach out and hold him, to stroke his hair and tell him that he'd regretted every single year that he'd let his abandonment from his father lapse. He wanted to calm him down, and tell him that there was nothing to fear about the changes that his body was preparing to go through, and tell him about the wonders of the universe and about the home he grew up in. Christ, he wanted to be the father that he'd once been, but reality quickly overcame his heart and he  _knew_  that his chances of things going back to the way they'd once been were poor at best.

 

"Just,  _explain_." The adolescent sounded emotionally strained. Just another reason for John's heart to fall deeper within his chest. "What the hell is happening to me?" He inhaled deeply and tapped his foot impatiently on the floor, the boy clearly troubled. "Before we got into the cab, Mr. Holmes said that I would find out 'where' I was from, and 'what' I am."

 

Glistening eyes shot up; startling blue hues locked with John's own. "What did he mean?"

 

At this point, John wanted to sink further into his chair and disappear. He wasn't being the father that he'd once been and he was already failing at being a decent friend. Sherlock had already specified that he and John were certainly not 'partners', and why should John have even held out much hope? The beanpole of a detective had completely tossed aside any notion of a biological bond that clearly existed between them, and he seemed rather adamant that they not move past anything other than platonic. But John's biological desire to pursue his feelings with Sherlock were at present, misplaced. He had a son to tend to, and despite assuring Sherlock otherwise, it seemed the case that Sherlock was being pushed to the background as he and Stevran spoke.

 

"Look." His voice became light, almost as though he were a doctor being incredibly delicate with a patient. Giving up the urge to nestle safely into the couch, he slid to his feet and approached his son with a sense of trepidation, and stood a comfortable length from the apprehensive boy. "You are my son. My biological, son." Oh, that desire to reach out and place a fatherly hand on his shoulder was terribly strong, but he couldn't. Not now, not when Stevran was so... Fragile.

 

"You've said that. I believe you, and I don't  **care**." The adolescent stepped back, his head shaking and his hands slipping from the chair. "Just, tell me. I have a tail, I have that..." He waved at John's chest, and grimaced. "Thing." He breathed. "We're clearly related and I'd be an idiot if I tried to deny that, but what is going to happen to me? What am I? Where am I - where are  _we_  from?"

 

_I don't care._

 

Three defining words that caused John's hopes to fall within seconds. If his son acknowledged their familial relationship, how could he not _care_? How could he not see the significance in finding one of his birthparents? The kid was in shock no doubt, but that wasn't the reaction John was expecting. The boy wasn't leaping at him with open arms, but rather, he was moving away.

 

"You don't care?" John blinked, but remained stoic and stone-faced; but pain was laden in his voice. "Uncertainty and confusion since you could remember; fear, I might add, for people finding out about your 'abnormalities', and you finally have the opportunity to  _meet_  your own father and you 'don't care'?" This hurt. All of this, it hurt. His son didn't want to meet him, Sherlock despised him and everything felt as though it were falling apart.

 

"I never - for Heaven's sake, I didn't mean it like that." The young man pushed away from where he was and shouldered past John, and he came to a halt when he almost blindly ran into Sherlock's chair.

 

With Sherlock still sitting  _in_  it.

 

"Oh? Enlighten me mate, how  _did_  you mean it?" John scoffed, both arms crossed over his chest, and Stevan swivelled around to meet his gaze. "You want answers, you just don't want to be slugged with the fact that your parents weren't as dead as you thought, right?"  _Ease it off, John._ "Because it's far easier to think that you've either got deadbeat parents who are either no-hopers, or dead. Otherwise, you have a _real_  parent who actually raised you from young; who  _gives_  a damn, might I add - and then you have to deal with the bloody fallout!"

 

"You approached  **me**!" Stevran finally snapped, and he edged behind the coffee table and threw himself down onto John's chair. "I  _have_  a father, and a mother. I've got sisters;I've got a  _girlfriend_." He gripped his hair tightly and heaved. "And Samantha - and Medical School. I have a life; I  _had_  a normal life now you're telling me I'm... I'm not even-"

 

"Human? No. You're not human. You were  _never_  human, and in less than a year you're not even going to  **look**  human." Time to break the ice, it seemed. And as expected, Stevran didn't look too pleased. In fact, he looked as though he was going to be sick. "There's the tenderness I mentioned, and there's the rash. Excess body hair might be starting to push through, but that's not even the half of it." Tensions were rising, and John felt as though he were already on the warpath with his son. "Shaving isn't going to help; it'll grow back in seconds. But then parts of your skin will start to roughen, and then they'll start to flake off and it will gradually get harder and harder until you'll develop something similar to-"

 

"Scales." Stevran's face whitened. Clearly, he knew  _exactly_ what John was referring to.

 

He hummed and nodded in response. "Scales. The distribution of fur to scales largely depends on the individual but you will, without fail, start undergoing some  _very_  significant changes for your commencement into adult maturity and yes, it will change you."

 

"But y-you don't-"

 

"I take a solution to suppress the hormone that enables my physical features to come out. It's not a permanent fixture and I've gained a tolerance to seven of my formulations of the solution over the years, but right now I've got one that's working and it's  _enough_ and it keeps me going for the most part." He gripped the edge of the client's chair, and lightly teetered it back and forth. "This is hard, and this whole thing is a cock-up-"

 

"Understatement of the century..." Stevran murmured.

 

"But I want to  **help**." John pleaded. "For Christ's sake, it wasn't my intention for us to be violently separated but it is what it is, and now, we're here. We're back together." He furthered his gaze to Sherlock; his heart beating with sympathy and regret. "And despite what Sherlock thinks of me; despite the fact that he thinks we're  _not_  partners, I think of him as the most loyal and trustworthy  _partner_  I've ever had the pleasure and privilege to know. Sod what he thinks, I don't care about  _that_. But I care about  **him** , and I care about  **you**. And I've cocked this all up, but I don't want to lose you  _both_."

 

In response, Stevran remained silent. He stared down at the ground, and then buried his head in his hands. 

 

The description of change that Stevran would be going through was enough to make even  _Sherlock_  want to cringe. He didn't, of course, because he was Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes couldn't be seen doing such things...but it was tempting. He couldn't imagine learning one day that his entire form would change, especially since there was nothing that could  _really_  be done to stop it. At least Stevran would have John's expertise to help him. Seven formulations. Jesus. The knowledge served to further remind Sherlock that he wouldn't have been able to come up with such a thing if John had asked him to. It hurt to be reminded that he wasn't as brilliant of a scientist as he thought he was (at least, not compared to John), but just like with his urge to cringe, Sherlock kept the emotion suppressed. Focusing on it would only make things worse between them.

 

Obviously this little 'reunion' wasn't going as well as John had envisioned it. Or, maybe it was going  _exactly_  how he had envisioned it. He had been hesitant to go through with it, after all. Sherlock had only insisted upon it because he knew how mopey John would get if he didn't meet his son. More than likely, Stevran would have eventually been 'found out'. How would he have explained that? He wouldn't have been able to. He wouldn't have even known what was going on himself. It would have spurred panic; testing would be done on him, or he would have to run away and live a life of solitude, never knowing what had happened to him or why.  
  
No. This was better. As much as Sherlock hated feeling like a stranger in his own home, it was what had to happen. John was upset, just as much as Stevran, although they were obviously anxious and angry about two different things. John was heartbroken--Sherlock, now, believed he knew what that felt like--to hear that his son didn't care. Stevran was terrified that he was going to become a 'freak' and that his real father had suddenly sought him out, just in time to warn him about changes that he didn't even want to happen. For once, Sherlock found himself being grateful for his 'normalcy'.

 

“Perhaps we should give you time to assimilate what you have heard,” Sherlock suggested, and he stood up from his chair at long last. Really, he just wanted to get John out of the room and tell him to calm himself. He understood why John was upset; the doctor did prone to have fits of anger bordering upon hostility, but he also knew that John would regret raising his voice to his son and then _Sherlock_ would be the one having to deal with it.

 

Assuming they remained in one another’s lives.


	4. Chapter 4

Walking over to John, Sherlock gripped the man’s arm and tugged on it. He wasn’t going to _force_ John to leave the room, but he thought it wise. Granted, what the hell did he know? He had thought his flatmate was human up until three weeks ago. Sherlock hated how he was questioning everything about John and himself; he absolutely _hated_ it, but he didn’t know how to stop. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this way before—betrayed. Completely and utterly betrayed.

 

The only other person Sherlock had ever put as much trust in was Mycroft. Even saying that, though, was generous. Sherlock hadn’t had much choice but to trust his brother from early on in his life. Their parents, as loving as they were, were idiots. They would leave their children and go on extended holidays, telling Mycroft—who was, himself, a child—‘Look after Sherlock, dear!’

In their defense, Mycroft had always been mature for his age. Nothing had ever actually happened to either boy that would make a person think, ‘What awful parents, leaving their kids alone!’ However, the fact remained that it had put Sherlock in a situation where he had to trust Mycroft. Even so, it took only fifteen years before they stopped getting along (not that they ever _really_ had), and then that trust stopped and hostility replaced it. Sherlock hadn’t ever thought he would trust anyone again, not with anything of real importance, until he had met John.

 

And now, that trust was broken.

 

No matter, though. Sherlock and his brother had been able to develop an arrangement that worked well enough for them; they saw each other when work needed to be done and spoke very little outside of it. Perhaps he and John could continue on living and working together, even if the emotional connection that had once been there would no longer be.

 

Not for a while, at least.

 

Stevran did want to be left alone, just for a while. He still had questions—plenty of them—but at the moment, he just…he just needed a moment to absorb everything, or at least try to. He heard the detective walking away, through the sitting room and down a hall that, he assumed, led to his bedroom or an office.

 

Leaving him and his father, alone, and for the life of him, Stevran didn’t know what he was supposed to say.

 

How was Sam going to take all of this? Would she? Should he even tell her? God, surely he wasn’t going to be expected to _leave_ her? Although, if he was going to have fur and scales…maybe it would be for the best, no? The tail was bad enough; it was what had drawn Stevran to plastic surgery to begin with, the desire to help others be rid of their birth deformities. He hadn’t ever fathomed that he was _meant_ to have a tail, or a slit on his torso, or scales and fur.

 

The only thing he was certain of was that he was uncertain. About everything.

 

“A minute,” he said, softly, and risked glancing up at John. His father. The man who had helped conceive him, the man who had helped raise him, teach him. The man he couldn’t even remember. Stevran’s hands curled into fists at his knees, but then he brought them back up to his face. “He’s right, just—just give me a minute. Please.”

 

A minute. As if a mere minute would actually make all of this ‘okay’. As if it would somehow make him feel like his life wasn’t ruined or that he wasn’t some sort of monster straight out of bloody Star Trek or Doctor Who.

 

Sherlock, meanwhile, was lying right on his bed. There was dust in his room, at least, but it was the one room he never actually wanted it. He didn’t need to track the motions of his own room. If Mrs. Hudson or John came in cleaning or searching for drugs, he would know. He always did.

 

Until John came and got him, demanded that he come back out into the sitting room for ‘moral support’ or whatever the hell it was he was even doing here, Sherlock was quite content to check his email on his phone, hoping that the alien murderer—ha—hadn’t skipped town.

 

Stevran needed a minute, and that was a completely reasonable request. After all, he'd just discovered that he no longer could lay claim to his humanity, and that in less than a year he'd become something almost unrecognisable. John assumed that poor Stevran must have seen this as the universe belting him a nasty slap to the face; living with a tail and hiding it from his family must have been hard, but to find out that his alien appendage wasn't even the worst of things to come was, quite frankly,  _unfair_. The kid had prospects; he had a  _girlfriend_  for Christ's sake and he had already paved his path to a solid career and a brilliant future, and now his alien heritage was going to cock it all up. Poor kid, John thought. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to have this strapped onto his shoulders when his life was only just starting to take off and flourish.

 

_I'm so, so sorry son._

_If things had worked out another way, we would be in this bloody mess._

 

No, they wouldn't. John would have his loving wife; he'd have has house and his luscious garden that he'd often tend to so frequently during his downtime. But not only that, he'd have the daughter that was denied every opportunity at life, the one who he'd lost upon impact. He'd mentioned her in passing to Sherlock when they'd been flogging texts back and forth to each other, but mention of his little girl had been so brief that he was certain Sherlock either took no notice, or didn't give a flying sod. But from the day John's ship was ambushed and plummeted down through Earth's atmosphere below, he could recall every waking moment. The fear he felt and the screams from his passengers still ran through his mind like a broken record; even the bruising he sustained from his arm from his loved ones gripping him _so_  tight as fire flashed over the glass of the cockpit upon their violent descent. The visual recollection when he awoke to see his ship in ruins, and the body of his wife crushed beneath a bulkhead remained in his memories with crystal clear clarity, including the absence of his son which had sent him into an futile bout of screams as he cried out his name into the darkness of the night. 

 

But then, there'd been the harrowing realisation that the feeling of being punched in the stomach was exactly that; and that nurturing bond he'd shared with all his family had been severed twice in one night; first his wife, and then the four month old unborn who still lay inside him. To have physically retrieved the detached foetus from his pouch and to have cradled her so delicately in his arms as he crouched in the middle of an alien field was something he could  **never**  truly forget; she'd been so beautiful, so perfect and so incredibly tiny as she lay limp, but John could recall thinking that she looked so  _peaceful_. It was a memory that haunted his thoughts each and every night before he went to sleep, and certainly enough to get him waking him shocked and in a nasty cold sweat.

 

Sherlock thought he had night terrors about  _Afghanistan_ , and there were times when that would be the case. But he was haunted by his past; haunted by what he'd lost and the life that he'd been forced to leave behind.

 

John could recall feeling a subtle squeeze on his arm and before long, Sherlock had departed to his room. The tension in the living quarters still remained as John and his son stood eye to eye, yet the doctor was starting to wonder if he'd made a horrid mistake. This wasn't right. Ruining his son's life wasn't  _right_ ; and the boy was already incredibly overwhelmed. Perhaps letting Stevran leave and returning to the normalcy of his night - if that were even possible at this point. He'd made him aware that his father was alive and he'd revealed himself to be that person, and for now, that was more than enough.

 

"You can have more than a minute." John brought his hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed heavily. "In fact, I..." 

 

_I'm going to regret this._

 

"It's probably best you go,  _Steven_." Oh, that felt terrible. He was already failing at his return to parenthood and he no longer felt himself worthy of such a title.

 

"W-What?" Stevran looked somewhere between heartbroken and livid, but still presented with a sickly pallor from the shock. "Let me get this straight." He dug his hands in his pockets and stared with glistening eyes at his father. His  _biological_  father, he reminded himself. At this point, the pair shared nothing more than genes and forgotten experiences. "You brought me all the way to your flat so you could tell me that my  _life_  is going to be ruined because of the genes that  **you**  gave me?" He scoffed, his tone now shifting over to lividity. "You sought me out so you could  _warn_  me that unless I turn to you and your little chemical 'concoctions', I'm going to be a slave to my own genetics. Right? That's what you're saying?" 

 

_I sought you out because you are my son, and I love you._

_Why can't you see that?_

 

John stood strong as the boy continued his verbal tirade, each word digging deeper than the last. He hadn't realised how much of an emotional anchor that Sherlock had been until he'd left, and things were going south. Fast.

 

"Y-You don't get it, do you?" His son shook his head, and he dipped down and snatched up his rucksack. "All this amnesia; all the lost memories and now and then I get snippets;  _small_  snippets in dreams and I've always been  **desperate**  to know more - to know why I am the way I am and now you  _find_  me and you tell me that I'm not even - that I'm the proper definition of a  _freak_." He choked. "It's not that I don't care, I  **do**. I care that I'm finally meeting my father for what feels like the first time but all this, and that-" He edged back, spreading the distance between them. "It's conflicting, because I  _want_  to know you but  _this_  is too much. Right now, it's all  **too**  much."

 

"Alright." John deadpanned, the tone in his voice flattening out. "I've unfairly burdened you with knowledge that's going to change your life. How  _dare_  I try to help you; but I'm already sodding this whole 'father' thing up. I had it right the first time, but things  _change_." With a trembling finger he pointed to the door, and hinted towards it. "Like I said, go. You've got a date tonight, and you've got a family to go home to. I won't dare burden you with my hopeless attempt at trying to care."

 

"But-"

 

" _Steven_ , it's fine. Utterly, fine. I said you're welcome to go, so there's the door."  Not wasting any more time, John stormed towards the doorway, but stopped as he came shoulder to shoulder with Stevran. "There's tea and food in the kitchen if you need it. Bathroom's down the hall, and here-" He dug around in his pocket, retrieved what he was after and slapped it into Stevran's surprised hand. "Is fifteen pounds to get you back home." He sighed heavily, and turned his gaze towards the doorway leading out into the stairwell. "Drop by when you see fit." He huffed. " _Alright_." He gave a sharp nod, and went on his way, not even offering so much as a goodbye and leaving his son in a rather confused and emotionally compromised state, only listening to the sound of footsteps trudging heavily as his father ascended the stairs and slammed the door shut behind him.

 

Steven of course, couldn't seem to do anything but stand there in shock. At some point or another he'd slid down against the wall and sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to  _move_. What was he to do? Leave? That seemed like the best option, but he still couldn't find the energy to just up and leave. On the contrary, he wanted to panic. He wanted to throw up, or hyperventilate or do _something_  but he was incapable of doing even that. He was different, his biological father apparently had the same limited patience as his own son and had stormed off to his room, and he now had a heavy secret on his shoulders that he couldn't even tell his  _girlfriend_. 

 

And now, he was alone in the living room of a  _strangers_  flat. 

 

And he was  _terrified._

 

Sherlock could only hear the bare minimum of what was being discussed in the sitting room. He could hear John's raised voice and he knew that the elder was getting angry annoyed, and hurt, all rolled into one. When that happened, it was never a good thing. That seemed to be the perpetual state that Sherlock was always in--save for hurt, of course, because that simply didn't  _happen_  to Sherlock Holmes (at least, he wouldn't often admit it to people, because he always needed to maintain his pride)--and it was normal for it to happen to John, too. What wasn't normal was the fact that it was happening right in front of John's son, and while Sherlock didn't care about the boy, such as he was, he knew that John did. He knew that John would regret ever being cross with him.

 

And, for reasons he couldn't even explain or recognise, that made Sherlock feel that he needed to step in. That he needed to do  _something_ for the sake of them both, the two aliens that were now in his life.

 

Sherlock wondered if Stevran was going to stay or go. As of now, of course, he was staying, but Sherlock and John had both left and were in their respective rooms. That made John impossible to get to without either communicating via text or walking past Stevran to get out of the flat and go up to John's room. Even if he did go upstairs to see John, though, Sherlock didn't know what he would say. He didn't know how he would comfort John. He wasn't that sort of man. If it were something he knew about--such as promising a client that he  _would_ solve their case--that would be different. With John, though, Sherlock didn't want to make any promises. Not about this.

 

Not yet. Sherlock wouldn't leave his bedroom just yet. Stevran needed time; John needed time. They both needed to cool off, and truth be told, Sherlock did, too. Even though he was lying on his bed and reading, he felt his heart racing, and his hands clenched and unclenched into and out of fists. He was conflicted, completely and utterly. A part of him that he had never acknowledged before was telling him to go up and talk to John, ask him how he was doing, assure him that Stevran would come around after he'd had enough time to accept the inevitable. Another part of him--the dominant part of him, the part that he preferred and the part that he presented--told him to either ignore John or go upstairs and lecture him.

 

That was what Sherlock would normally have done. He would have said sod it and left John to clean up his own mess, with Sherlock, maybe, providing assistance with the expectation of favours or praise to come afterwards. This time, he decided that he would do the opposite of what came naturally to him. He would go and ask John if he was--all right.

 

He knew that John wasn't, of course, but Sherlock wasn't sure what else to  _say_.

 

Sherlock waited five minutes before he got up from his bed. That is, he deliberated with himself for five minutes. He tried t talk himself out of it, only to convince himself back into it, for five minutes. When he left his bedroom and returned to the sitting room, Stevran was still there, his head in his hands. Sherlock couldn't see whether or not the boy was actually crying, but his breaths were shaky and his body was trembling.

 

Before going upstairs, Sherlock went into the kitchen and boiled water for tea. He walked one into the sitting room and set it down on the table closest to Stevran's chair (it didn't seem that the younger man even realised that Sherlock was in the room). With a resolved sigh, Sherlock took the other two cups of tea upstairs.

 

Just like the last time, Sherlock walked right into John's room, not bothering to knock or ask for permission to come in.

 

"Here," he mumbled, walking one of the glasses over to John's desk. He set it down and then raised the other to his lips as he turned to stare out the window. The sun had set already, but the street was still lit by the lamps and the headlights and tail-lights of cars. Baker Street was always so  _busy_. It was strange to be looking down at the people, now, because Sherlock knew none of them had any real idea that alien life existed. Superstitions, perhaps, but no concrete proof. None of them knew that there were two real-life aliens only a few yards away from them in the flat of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes.

 

They would never know that. Even if Stevran was somehow discovered, the chance that he would be traced back to John was slim. Knowing John, he would do something foolish like try to offer himself up in place of Stevran, which would only result in  _both_ of them being held and studied.

 

As a scientist, Sherlock could imagine the sort of things that would be done to John. X-rays, EKGs, many, many taken vials of blood, MRIs, electrocardiograms, psychological assessments, CT scans, reflex tests, exploratory surgery...really anything and everything that the medical community could come up with. Society would want to learn all they could about the alien, and John would be expected to give them all the answers. If he was unable to, people either wouldn't believe him or they would harass him--or worse--until he told them what they wanted to know. They would demand that he get in touch with his own people, demand that humans be allowed to 'make contact'. They would ask John questions about outer space and expect him to know  _everything_.

 

Sherlock might actually pity him for it. And, during all that, the detective would be left without a partner. It would hurt his own reputation, he imagined. 'Sherlock Holmes is the greatest detective of all time, but if he's so observant, how come he didn't know that the man he  _lived_  with was an alien?'

 

It was a perfectly valid question. One that Sherlock didn't have a good answer to. The most truthful answer would be to say that John had succeeded in pulling the wool over his eyes, successful in deceiving Sherlock Holmes, but Sherlock's pride was far too great to go around telling people that.

 

"He'll come around," Sherlock told the doctor. It was the kindest thing he could think to say, and it  _was_  his best attempt at encouraging John. At _comforting_  him. He turned around so he could face John and cleared his throat, flicking his wrist as if to wave off the awkward afternoon (and the horrible past three weeks) that they had been experiencing.

 

"After all, he does not have a choice. I believe he is in shock. I would suggest that you keep a watchful eye on him for the next several hours. He may be tempted to make a very...poor decision."

 

Suicide, that is.

 

"Then again, you probably know all of that already, Doctor."

 

_He hates me. I'm a bad father. If I hadn't decided to be so reckless and to take a scenic route, I would be alive. My wife would be alive, and I'd have my son and the daughter that was stripped from my life._

 

Turbulent thoughts surged through into the deepest recesses of his mind as he lay on his bed with his back sinking down into the mattress, and one leg bent over the side and just tiptoeing with the floor. He shouldn't have been so brash with the boy, for it wasn't his fault. It was John's fault. John had to continuously bring himself mentally in check and it was strenuously taxing. He wanted to hold him, calm him down and be there as any father should. He was  _once_  such a doting father to his child, but generally the male of his species was far more 'maternal' anyhow. The female merely contained the eggs to enable a child to be conceived, but the male spent six months of gestation whilst emotionally and chemically bonding to the foetus inside of them. It was a rare display of 'sharing' that rarely occurred throughout the universe (ironically though, seahorses had a similar arrangement with the creation of their brood), but one that John felt entirely normal and comfortable with.

 

But right now, normal and comfortable were two things that John felt incapable of identifying with. His life had changed in insurmountable ways since he'd crashed into that field on that fateful night, and for most of his life he'd felt as though he'd done nothing but spiral down into oblivion. Of course his medical training and knowledge had been paramount to his lie of having attended a medical school on  _Earth_ , and certainly being in the Queen's Army had given him a surge of life that hadn't felt in a long, long time but following his injury in Afghanistan, life hadn't gotten any better. He had no wife, no son, no place to call home and his funds were dwindling as his depression only worsened. At one point or another, the gun in his drawer  _had_  seemed like the only solution and by God, he would have pulled the trigger that night.

 

If he'd not met Sherlock, that is.

 

A human; a simple bloody human who didn't even know that the Earth revolved around the  _Sun_! He'd once admitted that even he could appreciate all the stars in the sky but as he'd often assure John, it wasn't worth storing into his cerebrum as a valid fact to withdraw on at a later date. He was stubborn, he was incredibly crass and his standard of hygiene (while utterly impeccable when it came to that on a personal level) was questionable when it came to the state of the flat and  _what_  body part of the month happened to be festering in the fridge that day. 

 

But oh, how he was  _brilliant_.

 

The deductive reasoning was unlike any other methodology he'd been faced across in all of the Universe that he'd seen. He'd met professors, scientists and professionals in their field whose knowledge far outstretched that of a 'human' based on their increased capacity to learn and grow in what they knew. But humans were so far  _behind_ ; a genius in their race was considered to be a miraculous marvel but to a member of John's own, it was but a person who happened to be a 'little' bit brighter than all the rest. John was by no means the smartest of his kind and he was likely even considered to be average and boring, but he was a skilful doctor, chemist and scientist in his own right.

 

"Ah, thanks."

 

He'd heard the door swivel open and bounce against the latch as it swung back, but he didn't dare peek up. Instead, his hands lightly rose and fell back on his stomach as he stared up blankly at the ceiling. He could hear the light footsteps patter against the woodwork and near the window, and after a few moments of silent contemplation, he let the air escape his chest as he rose to a seated position with his hands splayed out against the sheets. But with back turned to Sherlock, all he could muster up was a slight head-tilt as he peered wearily over his shoulder.

 

"Poor decision. Suicide, you mean. Because I, of course, was suicidal." He murmured coldly, his eyes blankly falling down to the floor and his shoulders slumped as they followed suit. "I get the reference, thanks."  _Cool it mate, he was making a point. You were wrong, he was right. Deal with it._

 

"Sorry."  _Apologise, and move on_. "I'm sorry, I'm  **sorry**." He stood up, shaking his head as he moved back and forth in an agitated pace. "Yes, he's in shock. My own son is downstairs, in shock and can I do a single thing about it? No. I think it's fair to say that 'Father of the Year' won't be awarded to myself anytime soon, that's for sure." He looked to be in utter despair as glistening eyes never strayed from Sherlock's own, and heaven forbid, the suffering father couldn't handle his friendship with Sherlock crumble any further. If he didn't have his son, he still had Sherlock. He'd  _always_  had Sherlock to keep him above water, and he needed him now more than he ever had before.

 

"Then, there's  _you_." He brushed a hand down the side of his face; his panic evidently clear. "You're mad, and I lied. And yes, I  _know_  that it was wrong and I made a promise to never keep you in the dark again and I will  **never**  go back on that promise. I can't  _lose_  you, Sherlock. And I know you think you're suddenly a third wheel; and hell, perhaps that's the case. Perhaps throwing my offspring into the mix isn't doing us any favours but I suppose that's one of the reasons I never tried harder to seek him out. I loved - I  _love_  him and would do anything to get him back into my life, but you can't seem to realise that I love  **you** , and losing you from my life isn't a bloody option. It's not. I won't allow it. I  _can't_  live my life without you, and it would be selfish of me to try and mend a relationship with my son that was severed with the crash. It's not fair to you, and to him." 

 

_And in a perfect world, I suppose I'd have the opportunity to try and mend our relationship on both fronts._

 

"But as I said, I  _owe_  you. I owe you answers to all the secrets I've denied you since I met you." He stepped forward, and practically fronted Sherlock until their faces were but a small length apart. "Blood tests, skin samples. You name it, I'll provide. You want to go to the lab _right_   _now_  and cut off my arm for the name of science? I won't stop you. By all means, you've got time? Let's go."

 

Sherlock stood still and quiet while John ranted. And yes, that was exactly what he was doing--ranting. Going on and on, from topic to topic, complaining and whining and venting. Sherlock understood why John felt the need to do so. After all, he felt the exact same way. Both of them were experiencing the phenomenon known as 'life isn't fair'.

 

For Sherlock, it presented itself as him feeling like an idiot and being blindsided by that massive blow to his pride. Rather than be in awe of John and curious to learn everything there was to know about him, Sherlock wanted to pretend that none of it existed. He wanted to pretend like he _hadn't_  completely missed the fact that his flatmate is an alien, because that was just too bloody humiliating to admit to himself. On the other hand, John had finally reconnected with the son he had lost years ago, only to be met with fear and disgust from him. Stevran appeared to want nothing to do with John, and considering that Sherlock was acting the same way, he probably felt alone, as if he truly was going to lose the only two people he had.

 

Sherlock didn't know what to say to John. All of this involved comforting, and everyone who knew him knew that he was rubbish at it. He could fake it, if a role called for it, but this wasn't a role. It wasn't fake. That was ironic, considering that John was an  _alien,_ something that Sherlock had never even thought about, much less believed in, until three weeks ago. The most unlikely possibility, in this case--Sherlock would have even been tempted to say that it was impossible--was the  _right_  one.

 

As he breathed in slowly, giving himself time to collect his thoughts and ensure that he could keep his voice controlled as he spoke (something he nor John was always successful at), Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. He drummed his fingers against his bicep and stared down at John. John was bloody right in front of him, no doubt demanding a response.

 

Take him up on his offer, Sherlock told himself. Don't turn down the opportunity to learn just because you feel like a fool. You'll look like an even bigger idiot if you do; it'll draw  _attention_  to your foolishness if you do. Just take his damn samples and learn as much as you can.

 

"Samples, then," Sherlock agreed. "Blood, of course. Also urine, semen, a scale or two, and a few hairs from your tail. That should be sufficient for now, but I will be sure to let you know if there is anything else I feel I need."

 

There. All in all, that was the easy part. Now Sherlock had to deal with John's... _feelings_. His emotional feelings, dammit. Not his physical ones. Those were really so much easier. The detective wet his lips, once again stalling for time. he hated how often he was doing that, now, but he wanted to at least try and say the right things. Unfortunately, he didn't know what the right thing to say in this situation  _was_.

 

"I am still angry," he began. "And I don't think I will ever stop being angry about this. It was--it  _is_ \--very unpleasant, as I'm sure you can imagine, to hear that you have been lied to, constantly, for the entire time you have known someone. However, I do understand that you felt you had no choice. I just hope you understand that I do not necessarily feel that I can trust you right now. At least, not with some things. I would still trust you with my life, but when you say you will be honest with me...it is a bit more difficult to believe. Do you understand?"

 

Not waiting for John to respond, Sherlock continued, "That is also why I struggle to believe you when you discuss this 'bond' nonsense, or when you talk about wanting me in your life so badly. It seems to me that you are panicking. Do not bother denying it; we both know that you are. Stevran, Steven, whatever his name is, he also knows it. You are panicking because you believe that he and I are both going to leave you, alone, and that you will have nothing--or, more specifically, no-one--to live for. That is incorrect. Even if he and I  _did_  both leave you, you would still have Mrs. Hudson, Harriet, Mike Stamford. Lestrade, Molly. I'm sure you also have mates from the army. You would not be  _alone_ , John. It would be a readjustment and nothing more."

 

There. Those were the cold, hard facts, presented as kindly and encouragingly as Sherlock Holmes could manage.

 

After clearing his throat, he stepped closer to John, just slightly so.

 

"I do not wish for you to be out of my life. I am just--struggling, with all of this. I am sure Stevran will say the same thing, once he has calmed down. He was presented with quite a bit of information all at once. Perhaps it would have been better if you had only told him that you were his father, first, and then later told him about what would happen." Sherlock shrugged, flicking his wrist. "Not that it matters, now. What is done is done."

 

Sherlock was being completely honest, blunt, but also--he hoped--comforting. He had never cared about being so before, but this time, he actually wanted to be. It wasn't as unpleasant a feeling as he had assumed it would be, but Sherlock still couldn't imagine himself ever turning into a comforting, gentle man.

 

That just wasn't  _him_.

 

"Do you feel better, now?"

 

"Bart's. Tomorrow. Preferably four or five in the evening. If you're going to take samples, it's better if I run you through a step by step physical; understanding what you're going to lodge beneath a microscope is key." Silence carried on following his shirtfront against the beanpole, but he took a heaving breath and let both hands fall on his hips as he dipped his head down to display the obvious level of mental fatigue that he was experiencing at present. "And, yes." He felt the rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to centre his thoughts and regain his composure, but being within Sherlock's personal space was mildly intimidating and he felt it rather troublesome to keep himself  _level_.

 

"Yes, I understand." He said, albeit incredibly calmly. "And  _yes_ , I feel better. Not brilliant, but not sour. We've got plenty of work to do in terms of where we're both going to go from here, but I feel... Fine." Wrong. He didn't feel fine. He felt upset, terrible, vile, guilty and whatever else came with the package of lying to a man that lived his life with the mindset that he knew  _everything_. Quite frankly, John could see how suddenly introducing 'aliens' in the mix was actually rather rude. John had been sitting on a goldmine of secrets and he'd kept the whole bloody thing  _all_  to himself. All of it, and Sherlock had been wafting through their friendship none the wiser. Keeping that perspective in mind, John could easily see how Sherlock could be so incredibly  _hurt_  from all this, and it made sense.

 

But being as stubborn as John was, he was also rather adamant in his opinion of  _how_  he felt about Sherlock; about how he truly and deeply cared for the man in a way that made him practically irreplaceable, and that now amount of time spent with Molly, Lestrade or anyone else could fill in that gap. There were two special people in John's life and the  _only_  two who truly mattered (as selfish as that sounded), yet Sherlock was spending far too much time being 'Sherlock' to truly acknowledge feelies from both parties. If the man dug his foot in the sand, there was little John could do to pry him away from that thought process.

 

"Actually..."  _Don't push it, John_.

 

_Leave it._

 

"I understand how you feel, I do. But I don't believe you understand how  **I**  feel."  _Oh, sod_. "I can acknowledge and atone for my mistakes, and I can apologise until the sun rises and goes down but you just  _don't_  get it. You don't, and you're being a bloody stubborn sod about it. How do you think I can just  **replace**  you? Why do you keep trying to write off this  _bond_  as a novelty? The  _te'nysha_ isn't a 'fad', Sherlock. I couldn't give a rat's arse if you can't feel it." He pointed his finger furiously at his own chest, and then poked it against the location of Sherlock's heart, his finger slightly depressing the thick wool of the Belstaff. "I can. I  _can_ , and sod you for not caring, Sherlock. Sod you for assuming that I'd just find another 'friend'.  _Sod, **you**_."

 

It was at that point that John did something where he acted without thought; his hand thrusting forward with splayed fingers in what felt like footage in slow motion as he extended his arm towards the subject of his grief. He didn't planned on doing it; he wasn't even sure if _anything_  could happen, but suddenly he had his hand in a soft grip behind the nape of Sherlock's neck which crept up further behind the lower aspect of his skull. Tension and fear aside, he used his hand to dip Sherlock's head down and suddenly foreheads touched - but not painfully, and it barely felt like a gentle tap as John's mind and vision were suddenly shrouded in haze; his mind being pulled to another place and Sherlock's own being brought along for the ride.

 

But to  _where_  in John's thoughts, he hadn't a clue. He hadn't done this before, and he was aware he could do this, but it felt as though he had almost acted upon a natural urge or instinct that had risen from the deep recesses of his mind at the last available moment.

 

John could feel himself standing and he was aware of his corporeal form as he stood, yet he was far invested in the endlessness of his mind that seemed to span on for an immeasurable distance. It was dark, but there were moments that whizzed by where the brilliance of the light was just far too overwhelming to look at. He wasn't entirely in control of his mind as the pair remained connected, but a muddled mixture of vibrance and darkness chaotically mashed together until the chaos slowly began to melt and fall into shapes and figures that scrolled by like images on an old movie, but moving with a small time delay. John felt as though he could scream all he wanted, but the emptiness of this _place_  merely absorbed the words, thoughts and feelings as they were thrown onto a public sphere for Sherlock to see; his emotions included.

 

But as confused as the onslaught of images, colours and words may have been, clarity was close at it's wake and not far behind.

 

And as if by a miracle, everything suddenly just became so  _serene_.

 

_Sherlock?_

 

For a moment, not even for a fraction of a millisecond, John could  _see_  Sherlock in his thoughts. They were level; completely eye to eye and everything was just in such a  _perfect_  place. John didn't want to leave; he wanted to stay and just remain as calm as he'd wanted to be in a long, long time.

 

But all good things must come to an end (or so they say), for the energy bouncing off between both parties began to fill the endless fields of his mind until the clarity was suddenly overtaken by a vengeful clash as both their minds between to furiously intertwine. Memories of birthday parties where a very young boy with curly raven-coloured hair refused to play with his guests came into his view, but as quickly as it came, he was now faced with a much older adolescent-version of the boy he'd seen, but partaking in some rather unorthodox 'weekend' activities (heroin and marijuana, for a start). But for each and every memory he saw, Sherlock was seeing a random smattering of memories that happened to be brought to centre stage, ranging from a time where he was running late for his own graduation from his Medical program, to the time he'd turned up late to his own Birth ceremony for Stevran. And that was but the tip of the iceberg, for seconds that passed felt like a small eternity as memory after memory swapped and shared with either person as the connection continued to remain strong and strengthen with each passing second. He was seeing more,  _feeling_  more and could feel his body tremble as every single emotion that Sherlock had ever felt starting gushing through like a geyser, including the indescribable pain that he'd faced when he'd first been dragged off to his first Rehab facility out in the countryside. 

 

_Stop, stop, **stop**._

**_STOP_ ** _._

 

He wanted to let go; why couldn't he let go so easily? His blood pressure was starting to skyrocket and the images flicked through faster and faster in his mind until all he could see was a blur, but each memory he saw from Sherlock stuck in his mind like glue. His respirations were short and sharp and he was bordering on hyperventilation, and sweat lined and streamed over his skin whilst they remained interlocked in their current entranced state of mind. He could see why he'd never tried this before, but he was starting to worry for Sherlock's welfare by this point and he  _had_  to find a way to stop. There  _had_  to be a way to break the connection before either of the two got seriously, terribly hurt.

 

**_FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, JUST. LET. GO._ **

 

"-Hell!" He fell back with a stagger and tripped in such an impressive display that he tumbled back and fell without pause. His head ached before the fall, and it just added insult to injury when he hit the side of the bed with a sickening ' _thwack_ ' as the bedpost collided with his left temple. Blood streamed down the side of his face as he hit the ground, hard. He must have had a few solid seconds of consciousness before succumbing to the direct result of a nasty blow to the head. It wasn't how he thought this night would pan out, but perhaps knocking himself out after being (unintentionally) mentally invasive wasn't such a terrible thing after all. He'd seen  _so_  much of Sherlock's life, but he'd not been aware as to what Sherlock himself had seen; hell, he'd not even been truly sure as to why he'd latched on in the first place.

 

But as it stood, he'd crossed the line.

 

 _Again_.

 

\-----

 

In the interim, Stevran had spent the majority of his time downstairs mulling over his options as he found the need to prepare himself a cup of peppermint tea before departing. It was his 'thing' if he'd ever been stressed; he'd make tea, and somehow that seemed to dull the anxiety and put him back on his path to sorting things out. It wouldn't solve all his problems, but it would at least sort  _one_  of them out.

 

The boy was still utterly shaken, especially given what he'd been told and  _shown_ in the space of a night. This strange man and his 'live in' had crashed into him, whisked him away to Baker Street and had told him something entirely indisputable and had left him with something unable to prove against. He believed the man, and that wasn't the problem. He  _felt_  in his heart that this man was exactly who he said he was, but he just couldn't wrap his head around it. An alien. This  _man_  was an alien, which automatically made Steven an alien by default. That meant that he was born amongst the stars and on an entirely different  _planet_ , and to think; humans had enough trouble just getting off this damned rock so they could hover around in orbit for a few weeks at a time. It was insane, ridiculous but it was real. He'd always had a firm belief that humans could never quite be so  _alone_  in such a brilliantly expansive universe, but to think that  _he_  was exactly the thing he'd always believed in... And his father - his  _biological_  father; it just blew his mind.

 

But it also made him feel sick. He was meant to go on a  _date_  tonight, and clearly that was out of the question. He pondered the possibility that he could just study, but even then, he didn't think he'd be able to focus. All he could do was sip his tea, sigh and pace apprehensively as he covered the small distance of the kitchen floor with the mug carefully poised in his hand. He couldn't stay; he didn't  **want**  to stay, but he couldn't just let this opportunity walk out of his life. If he was going to change, and soon - then it made sense that the only person in his life who could  _help_  was the one he should gravitate towards. If this 'John' - his  _father_  - had the serum to prevent his changes, he'd need his help without doubt.

 

But he had two sisters; a loving father and mother and a  _girlfriend_. He had career prospects and it wasn't as though he was the first child who had ever been adopted before. But it wasn't about the adoption, he reminded himself; it was purely about the 'alien'... Thing. It was about the fact that he had a  _sac_  in his chest; or about the fact that his tail was starting to hurt. He shouldn't even  _have_  a tail; or now, he supposed he should. But Samantha looked past that, and she wasn't just his girlfriend, but an incredible friend who would go out of her way to do anything for him, even if that meant putting his needs before hers (despite Steven telling her otherwise).

 

"I need to do this." He whispered beneath his breath, and he leaned over the kitchen counter and pressed his forehead against a clean chopping board. "It's this, or spending the next phase of my life locked up in a broom closet. Sam wouldn't approve."

 

Snatching a spare shred of paper lying loosely on the bench, he trembled as he dipped for a pen from his pocket and began to write. First impressions were always incredibly important (especially when it came to his Med School interviews), but he was always optimistic enough to assume that things could always get  _better_. And it wasn't as though he'd be betraying his adopted ( _real_ ) family by engaging in this essential partnership with this 'John' - he needed to do it. It was all about need, and right now, he needed this.

 

**_To John, and Sherlock._ **

 

**_I think it's fair to say that tonight was a disaster. No point sugarcoating the facts, it was horrid._ **

 

**_But, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't mine, either. It's clear that you didn't abandon me by choice, but it's clear that you've no idea how to approach this situation with a touch of sensitivity. Aliens? Seriously? On a scale from '1' being 'you have cancer' to '10' being 'you're a wizard, Harry' - this is about a '34'. You told me I was an alien, and I'm not denying that. But honestly, if you think that I can just be /okay/ with that, you really need to self-evaluate your ability of interacting with other people._ **

 

**_I'll scribble my number at the end of this note, but I'll drop by tomorrow about four. If you don't want me there, fine. Text me, I won't come._ **

 

**_And before you think that we're going to be all 'chummy' like any father and son should be, don't. Francis Harold is my father, Bernadette Harold is my mother and I treat my sisters as though they were my flesh and blood. I have a family, 'John', and I don't want a new one._ **

 

**_But - for me to understand my condition, I need to understand you. And for me to understand you, I need to know you._ **

 

**_Both of you, actually. I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't a tad interested in your casework, 'Sherlock'. I must say, the Blind Banker had me on my toes. Or the Speckled Blonde - that wasn't too bad. But I have to agree with your blogger on this one, you do tend to come across as being spectacularly ignorant._ **

 

**_Alright, I'm off. Tomorrow at four._ **

 

**_Steven Harold._ **

 

Upon completion of his letter, he slipped it easily under a small beaker and made a quick dip out the front door; totally unaware to the heavy thud coming from the room upstairs.


	5. Chapter 5

Although Mycroft was perfectly aware of the demands of his job, sometimes even _he_ felt that he was being asked to do the impossible. He never told anyone, preferring instead to keep his head down and get straight to work (after all, nothing would be accomplished if he didn’t), but there did come the few-and-far-between occasion when he would seek outside assistance.

Sherlock’s assistance.

Mycroft was never thrilled with the prospect of asking his brother to do something for him. Sherlock would, before anything else, complain. He would say that he was ‘oh so busy’, make up lies just for the sake of making Mycroft _beg_ (although that was a strong word for what Mycroft would ever actually do). He and Mycroft would sit and talk calmly, staring at one another, and eventually Sherlock would groan and hold out his hand until Mycroft put the case file directly into it.

Mycroft never gave Sherlock assignments unless he knew that the boy—that was how Mycroft would always see his brother; a _boy_ —would enjoy them. Sherlock would be too stubborn to take them otherwise, unwilling to help Mycroft just for the sake of doing his elder brother a favour, despite the fact that Mycroft had done _many_ over the years for him.

Sending him to rehab. Renting a flat for him. Buying him groceries and clothes. Getting him out of trouble over and over and over again. Sherlock never once thanked him, but Mycroft wasn’t so petty to demand that the words be said. He only wished that Sherlock would, once in a blue moon, show his gratitude by doing something he didn’t want to for Mycroft. Mycroft had done it more than enough for him.

This particular case that Mycroft was going to offer to his brother was one that he knew Sherlock would be quick to accept. It was in Glasgow, four women who had been found in local parks, decapitated. Normally Mycroft didn’t take notice of such crimes, but these women were all directly related to politicians, either their daughters (two) or their mother or sister. It may or may not have been an act of domestic terrorism that would escalate in ferocity, but Mycroft didn’t want to take the chance.

That was why he was sitting in one of his sleek black cars, peering out the window and wishing that he was doing something besides asking his brother to take a case.

When the car stopped in front of 221 Baker Street, Mycroft waited for the driver to get out and come around to open his door. Mycroft lifted himself up and slid out of the car with as much grace as he could manage, then instructed that the driver remain parked in front of the building. He couldn’t imagine it would take long, after all. Sherlock enjoyed gruesome murders. He had ever since he was a little boy.

Which, in many ways, he still was.

Sherlock was irresponsible. He was selfish. He was immature and entitled; he always tried so damn hard to impress everybody just so they would praise him and make him feel special. Mycroft had never understood it, himself. Why would anybody care so much about impressing a world filled with idiots? What joy was there in boasting about one’s intelligence when there was really no competition to be had?

Mycroft was Sherlock’s only competition, but even that was putting it generously. Mycroft was smarter. He was cleverer. He was mentally quicker. He had a far better memory; he was able to pick up on things more easily. Sherlock was brilliant compared to the average man, but to Mycroft he was _slow_.

With his briefcase in hand, Mycroft walked up to the door of his brother’s flat. He had just lifted his hand, in which he held a key, to the door (after adjusting the knocker so it was straight, and yes, of course he had his own; he would take every measure possible to avoid Sherlock’s _batty_ landlady) when it suddenly burst open and a young man tore out of the building, brushing past him without saying so much as ‘excuse me’. He looked panicked and ill, pale in the face but sweating and breathing quickly. Mycroft’s first thought was that he was a burglar, but he had no possessions and there were no marks of self-defense on him. The lights were on upstairs so Mycroft knew his brother and Doctor Watson were home. They would have heard him; they would have fought him.

Of course, it was entirely possible that the man was only a client whom Sherlock had angered. It happened often. Too often, in Mycroft’s not-so-humble opinion. Sherlock had yet to learn that one did not always need to voice every thought they had about another individual.

Mycroft walked up the steps slowly. When he arrived into the sitting room, he lifted an eyebrow, surprised to see neither Sherlock nor John sitting there. There was a chair sitting near the two armchairs; obviously the man had been a client and his brother and John had been talking to him. And yet, they were nowhere to be seen.

It was then that Mycroft heard two thumps coming from upstairs. One, loud, hollow, and then another that sounded exactly the same, but a fraction louder.

Mycroft was, for the most part, a calm man. He was not one to lose his head over the slightest of things, and even under extreme pressure he looked serene, completely in control. Even so, he had to admit that he was a bit—concerned, when he heard those thumps, especially because his brother and John were both nowhere to be seen. Despite going straight upstairs, Mycroft took a speedy detour into his brother’s bedroom. There was a book on the bed and the blankets had recently been mussed up, as if someone had been lying on them, but when he touched them he found that they were cold. Subconsciously—Sherlock would blame it on his apparent OCD—Mycroft smoothed the covers out.

Upstairs it was, then.

He was already preparing himself for the worse. If both men were upstairs and they had suddenly collapsed, what could that mean? Had the young man killed them? Were his brother and Watson being _intimate_? The thought made Mycroft sneer, and he honestly couldn’t decide which idea he found to be more detestable.

Mycroft cut through the kitchen to go upstairs. His eyes caught sight of a sheet of paper that began very curiously—addressed to both John and his brother, and saying that ‘tonight was a disaster’.

It could only be from the young man who had left. Mycroft had been in the process of pulling out his phone to dial for medical assistance, but the more of the note he read, he found himself lowering his phone.

_‘You told me I was an alien, and I’m not denying that.’_

_‘I have a family, ‘John’, and I don’t want a new one.’_

The letter was obviously addressed chiefly to John. Mention of Sherlock seemed to be an afterthought, or something added in simply for the sake of being polite. That wasn’t what really caught Mycroft’s attention, though.

Mycroft folded the letter and put it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He would learn more about this Steven Harold character in time, but his primary concern was Sherlock. He moved up the steps as quickly as he could with his fitness level—or lack thereof—and opened the door to John’s room after knocking and receiving no immediate response.

“Sherlock?”

It took Mycroft less than a second before he had his mobile out once more and was pressing ‘two’ on it, speed-dial to alert his own people that he needed medical care, _now_. The average response time for a London ambulance was seven minutes. For Mycroft’s private medical care, it was closer to four.

_Alien. Alien. Alien._

The word kept repeating itself over and over in Mycroft’s head. He didn’t have time to think about it now, not when he was staring at two unconscious bodies lying on the floor. It would come as no surprise to anyone that Mycroft stepped right over John and crouched down beside his brother. He held his hand in front of Sherlock’s mouth, relieved to find that he was breathing, albeit a bit wheezily. The relief was short-lived, however, when he pressed his fingertips to Sherlock’s carotid artery and calculated his heart-rate being at one-hundred and eighty beats per minute. While Mycroft wasn’t a medical man, he knew that wasn’t normal. Sherlock’s heart was beating so fast that _Mycroft_ had barely been able to keep up with it to count it. His brother, like John, also had blood on his face, a bit that had smeared onto his forehead from his temple, where he had fallen on his side.

Perhaps the worst part of it all was that Sherlock was shaking. He was unresponsive, despite Mycroft’s attempts at getting his attention. His body was tensed but it would not stop _trembling_.

Someone had done this to the both of them, then? Sherlock was an idiot, but he wouldn’t hurt John Watson. Mycroft had confidence in that. Mycroft knew that he had drugged the doctor before, but it was only with something harmless. Sherlock had never even knocked _Mycroft_ out cold, and the elder Holmes had been, on more than one occasion, the one who was dragging him out of drug dens, carrying Sherlock over his shoulder, high as a kite and screaming and struggling to get free.

It was possible that John had done this to Sherlock—but then, why would he also injure himself? It may have been an accident, or John may have done it in order to cover up the fact that he was the one responsible. Either way, Mycroft took the opportunity to look over John’s body. If he was really an ‘alien’, there would be signs of it, no?

Fortunately for Mycroft, it was easy to find. John’s trousers had been pulled down only slightly from the fall, and Mycroft could see a few hairs where they shouldn’t have been. Mycroft normally didn’t like touching people, not even his family, but this was a different set of circumstances entirely. He pulled John’s trousers down, just enough to see what was very obviously a _tail_ growing from the base of his spine.

It was true, then. It _had_ to be. John Watson was an alien.

Mycroft heard heavy feet thumping on the downstairs steps. He straightened himself up, after pulling John’s trousers back up to a decent resting point, and wiped his hands on his own trousers. As soon as the medical team entered the room, Mycroft gestured towards his brother.

“Take him to the hospital.”

They nodded and immediately set to work taking Sherlock’s vitals and loaded him onto a stretcher. One of the paramedics, a nurse by the name of Kathryn Blake, who had worked for Mycroft for many years, looked from Sherlock to John, and then lifted his eyes to the elder Holmes.

“And this one, Sir?”

Mycroft didn’t respond right away. He had not yet been given adequate time to think through all of this. John Watson was an _alien_ , and he had done something to Sherlock, intentionally or unintentionally hurting himself in the process. Had he intended to hurt Sherlock, or had that been unintentional, too? What was it that he had done? _Why_ had he done it, whatever ‘it’ was?

“Him, too,” Mycroft decided. “I want you to look him over, Blake. Report back to me regarding his status and injuries. If he needs to see a physician, I will choose one myself. Beyond that, you do not let anyone evaluate him. Understood?”

Blake nodded. “Of course, Sir.”

Mycroft followed the medical team as they left. Sherlock was already in an ambulance and on his way to a private hospital, where security was high and the staff was confidential and skilled. John was loaded into a second ambulance and sent to same.

Despite caring not being an advantage, Mycroft got back into his car and instructed his driver to take him there. He would be able to speak with Sherlock when he woke up, but even more important was speaking with John Watson. He was an _alien_. _That_ was what Mycroft was focused on right now. Sherlock was in capable hands; if there was anything that could be done to help him, it would be. Mycroft needed answers, though, and he could only get them from John.

Fifteen minutes later, Mycroft was sitting in a chair three yards away from John’s hospital bed. If anyone saw him there, they may have thought that Mycroft was more worried about John’s well-being than he was his own brother’s, which was a ridiculous idea, of course. He had told Blake to alert him on Sherlock’s status as soon as she found out anything. Mycroft just wanted to ensure that he would be the first and only one who spoke with him.

In addition to the usual IVs, the alien was strapped down by his wrists and ankles, just as a precautionary measure, and there were two armed guards outside. Nobody was going to get in and nobody was going to get out without Mycroft’s approval.

As he sat there, Mycroft realised that he had got his wish. After all, he was now doing something besides asking his brother to take a case. It seemed they had both found one without even meaning to.

* * *

 

"Remarkable."  
  
"Just, remarkable."  
  
The last thing Doctor David Tenford had expected on a Thursday evening was to be sent a pager on a highly restricted network, given the fact that his nights were usually so dull. There wasn't a great deal of text in the message, but he'd had enough prior training which enabled him to recognise that he was to get adequately dressed and be waiting out the front of his flat in the next ten minutes, but really; his first inclination when he saw the coded message was to call up MI6 and demand the nature of his sudden 'assignment'. He felt a bit silly, really; as skilled of a surgeon as he was, he was far from a James Bond or a super secret 'spy'. He'd seen all the movies and considered himself to be somewhat of a 'super spy' buff, but he'd only really accepted the Government's offer to stay 'on call' because it offered just that little bit more pay. And not only that, but he felt a little bit of pride in knowing that his assistance in any assigned secretive 'mission' was only further serving both Queen and country.  
  
So alas, he'd thrown on some respectable clothes, kissed his children and wife farewell for the night and stepped out onto the empty pavement in the harsh chill of the winter night. The ominously intimidating black automobile had been waiting as promised, and he was ushered into the back without being given a chance to question or query. Instead, he remained quiet and watched the world pass him by from tinted windows that shrouded him into obscurity.  
  
And there'd be a time in that journey when he'd considered the possibility that all the red-tape surrounding his impending task could simply be something as standard as a callout from the Department of Disease Control. The notorious Ebola had been causing a few passing concerns from time to time from travellers returning to the UK from West Africa. but bringing in one of the country's most skilled surgeons to consult on a potential Ebola case wasn't the usual standard practice when it came to monitoring and containing the incidence and prevalence of a deadly, infectious disease.  
  
So, couldn't be Ebola.  
  
But if not Ebola, then what? Was there a new, synthetic pathogen that had been genetically constructed in a lab for the purpose of biowarfare? But that wouldn't make sense, because he wasn't a geneticist, or technically a scientist. He was a man of medicine; a veteran in his field and had been for the past twenty eight years. He was far more suited to exploratory surgery as opposed to exploring one's entire genome.  
  
And so, the rest of the cab ride had left the man despairingly confused. And from confusion, that eventually evolved into weak expectations and thoughts about how the rest of the night would be just another patient he'd have to treat; possibly even a government official or somebody that frequented the political public eye who wished to keep a rather embarrassing ailment under wraps.  
  
Yes, it's likely that. Bloody politicians and all this 'hush hush'.  
  
Of course, the middle-aged man was so very poorly mistaken.  
  
The debrief from a fairly attractive, well groomed lady who only identified herself as 'Anthea' had presented herself to Dr. Tenford at the door of a rather lucrative private hospital in central London with a clipboard attached paper held confidently in her hands. Not a smile was given as she handed him both the clipboard instructed her guest to follow him, and the pair were suddenly on route through a maze of pristinely white corridors and corners that appeared to span on indefinitely. There'd be a time when an orderly or nurse would pass by, but this particular floor of the private hospital was rather vacant, it seemed. Vacant, but the equipment in this facility appeared to be top notch, and he hadn't even had a chance to view the operating theatre (if they even had one, that is).  
  
"So, I -"  
  
Upon approaching a room that had the doorway flanked by a guard on each side, his escort paused and spun on her heel, her face expressionless and her demeanour somewhat hardened.  
  
"Read the paper I've provided you, and sign at the bottom. Everything you see, hear and witness in this hospital and with regards to your patient are highly confidential." She deadpanned. "If you are found to inform anyone, pass on any information or attempt to bring this to the attention of the media, you will be promptly incarcerated for the duration of your life, is that understood?"  
  
"Well, I suppose-" He'd swallowed thickly, and scribbled his signature across the bottom. 'Anthea' was quick to snatch it back.  
  
"You are to perform an examination on the patient, and verbally record your findings. He is, at present, unconscious but has been further sedated and restrained to prevent any... Interruptions." She appeared a little conflicted at the last statement, but pressed on. "Both guards will be stationed outside the door for your protection, and his. You have thirty minutes, Doctor Tenford, by which I will have expected you to conclude the initial examination. After of which, I will attend to receive your findings and you will be escorted back to your residence until further instruction is given at later date. Is that understood?"  
  
"Crystal."  
  
A sharp nod had been her only response and she'd promptly disappeared from view with the sound of her heels clicking against the polished linoleum floor, leaving a very anxious but extremely curious doctor who had yet to see his patient.  
  
And once he entered the moderately sized room, he had not wasted a single second more; it was time to examine and do his job.  
  
"This is Doctor David Tenford, the date is Thursday, 4th of July 2015 and the time is 7:45pm. Examination of the subject has commenced..." He'd popped on a pair of gloves and had parted the front of the hospital-issue robes as he began to palpate and explore the skin. "Patient has already been tended to by paramedics for a superficial head wound to the left temple; seven stitches, holding together quite nicely." He brushed his fingers through John's sandy blonde and greying hair as he felt for any bumps or possible cracks in the skull, but his eyes trailed up as he saw a series of X-Rays lit up and situated on the nearby wall. "Upon analysis of X-Rays taken also at an earlier date, there are no signs of fractures and / or dislocations. Patient is -" He paused, and narrowed his eyes at the images closely. "Presenting with three extra costa on both sides, and-" He paused again, and frowned. "And an extension of his sacral vertebrae that do not appear to fuse at the coccyx. A physical examination of this area will now take place."  
  
The patient had been undressed and had nothing beneath the single layer of fabric that made up his gown, and despite being restrained it was relatively easy to tip him precariously on his side. As he ruffled up the robe which displayed his backside, he had to swallow his fear and breath heavily at the surprise that greeted him. "P-Patient..." He took a moment or two to recompose himself, and gently ran his hands down the length of the unknown appendage. "Patient presents with an appendage representing that of a tail." He breathed, his fingers pressing through the sandy-coloured fur that had random streaks of black, grey and darker shades of brown. "The shape of the tail bears similarity to that of an alpine fox, however the length appears to be more proportionate to the body. Forty five centimetres in length, but accuracy is yet to be determined. The tail is entirely covered with an animal-like fur." He was truly starting to see why they'd gone to all this trouble to keep this so secret, but he hadn't been this giddy in years. He honestly, truly felt like an intern again, starting out for the first time and analysing each patient with such a new and youthful eye.  
  
Minutes passed and he continued to examine the patient from head to toe, going as far as analysing the man's genitalia, to prodding and poking each and every aspect of his lower abdominal region. So far, he'd identified at least three organs that were slightly out of place, two that weren't there at all (spleen and pancreas, for a start), and one that he didn't even recognise. He'd observed some rather unusual marks across the skin surrounding his navel (almost as if the skin had been stretched), but as hands went searching higher and more superior to that, he swallowed thickly as he came across a rather unusual anatomical feature.  
  
"Upon initial inspection the patient presented with a linear, twenty-five centimetre laceration across his chest and below his pectorals." Taking bravery in his stride, he tucked a few fingers carefully beneath the opening, and delicately parted the folds as he peered inside. "Fascinating." He murmured, and brought out a penlight as he illuminated the cavity with widening eyes. "Patient displays some sort of sac with a visible dark, purple liquid pooling at the base. Possibly related to the visible stretch-marks identified more inferior to this sac, and may bear gestational properties. Does not appear to be a wound by any means. Similar to a pouch identified in that of Australian marsupials."  
  
"Patient is simply... Remarkable."  
  
The examination went on a similar path for the duration of his allocated half-hour time and he'd made sure to appropriately roll back down the hospital gown to cover the necessities upon completion, but once he'd recorded all of his findings he was promptly ushered to the door by one of the guards, and Anthea was there as promised. He handed over the recorder (albeit, a little reluctantly) which Anthea would promptly pass on to her boss, and as warned, he was guided back to an awaiting car out at the front door of the hospital. But even as he watched the world pass him by from the car (yet again), he had a very strong inkling that his job wasn't over quite just yet.  
  
~~~~~  
  
There was nasty breeze wafting and ticking at the base of his feet, and John felt an unsettling chill that caused his body to tremble. The cold was never his friend, but in his haze he could only assume that Sherlock had left the window open, again. "Shr'lock." He drawled, but his tongue couldn't seem to shape the words as fast as brain was instructing. "Cl'se the win.." He loosely ran his tongue over his teeth, but his mouth felt so dry. And his eyelids felt like cement, but he couldn't recall having a bender of a night with Greg as of late so he certainly wasn't hungover.  
  
"Close..." He yawned, and clenched his eyes shut to ward off the horribly illuminating halogens that beamed heavily from up above. "The window... You're letting a draft... In." Fluttering open his eyes wasn't so easy when they felt as though a hippopotamus was sitting right on them (not that he'd know what that was like), but at first glance, all he could see was a blur. It was so bright in here, and a hazy figure was sitting across from him, but not too far away.  
  
Hold on a minute.  
  
Since when did we get halogens?  
  
Halogens, and a EKG machine, as hinted by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat that rang through the machine beside him. And not only that, but the distinctive smell of antiseptic and disinfectant.  
  
How had he not picked up on that? He worked in a clinic for Christ's sake; he spent more time at Bart's than he did his own flat, and he was a doctor. A surgeon, actually. His vision might have been temporarily skewed, but he was in a hospital. Something had happened, and his head (as if on cue) started to throb. The blips of his heartbeat began to run faster as apprehension began to set in; this wasn't right, none of this was right. Had he been in an accident? Had he-  
  
Oh.  
  
Oh.  
  
The room, Sherlock, his memories and Sherlock's memories. All of it had clashed like a car crash and given the fact that he was lying on a hospital bed (which was very, very bad), something had gone extremely wrong. And if John had been injured, the blatant fear that Sherlock had been mentally maimed was enough to make bile start bubbling up in John's core. He felt sick; he just wanted to find Sherlock and help. The bond that he could feel, he knew Sherlock was alive but he also felt something else. Something additional that hadn't been there before; pain. But, it wasn't his pain. Be it emotional or physical, he couldn't even ascertain which. He just knew that Sherlock was nearby, and suffering.  
  
"Sher-Sherlock. Sherlock?" He went to push himself off of the bed, but something was wrong. He felt a jarring motion, and so he remained on his back.  
  
"No, no, no." His vision began to clear but he was met with the pale, cream coloured tiles and linear halogens that lined the hospital ceiling. He dipped his heard forward and took note of the shadowed figure, whose features still seemed to be blurred from his view. "Who-" Eyes clenched shut, he shook his head and ignored the nagging throb that radiated through his temple. Blinking rapidly seemed to dissipate the fogginess, and the man who sat over in the visitors chair gradually began to take shape; the finer features of his creased brow and blatantly obvious concern written all over him.  
  
But really, the mahogany cane should have a dead giveaway.  
  
Mycroft?  
  
He should have been terrified, or furious. But in truth, John had never been happier to see such a familiar face.  
  
"M-Mycroft. Good. You're here, good." He rasped, his voice hoarse and weak; but filled with desperation. "Listen - I think something happened to Sherlock. You need to tell me his condition. Tell me how he is. And-" He pulled both hands up, but the restraints served as a fairly decent preventative. "I believe the restraints are a little dramatic, don't you think?"  
  
He pulled at his ankles, but he was met with the same obstruction. And with the hope of having this situation resolved, the realisation of Mycroft not being here for his aid was starting to sink in slowly, but steadily.  
  
"Mycroft?"  
  
His eyes flickered from the 'Ice Man' to the walls, where he briefly surveyed the X-Rays that had been performed on his body in segments.  
  
X-Rays. Hospital robe. Grogginess from sedation. Restraints.  
  
This wasn't right.  
  
"Oh."  
  
John was an alien who had been admitted to a hospital. He'd been treated for a head wound, he'd had X-Rays performed and based on the fact that he'd been de-robed, he'd been given a physical examination. And now, Mycroft was here. A man who claimed to partake in a 'minor' Governmental role and would rather be monitoring the state of the United Kingdom as opposed to John's own private affairs. But that said, anything concerning his younger brother generally concerned John, and anything that concerned Sherlock usually concerned Mycroft (to a point).  
  
"Look." He swallowed thickly, his voice thick with uncertainty and the subtle undertones of fear evident in his tone. "Mycroft, listen." Ugh, he hated this. He was helpless; he, John Watson, was practically a prisoner. Seemed fitting though, that a hospital was such a place to keep him captive, but he had doubts that he'd be kept in such a public place for much longer - especially if Mycroft wasn't satisfied with granting John the freedom he so desired.  
  
"Mycroft." He had to be tactful about this; he had to play his cards right. Mycroft had the power to ruin his life, but he also had the ability to grant him lenience. "I, well-" You're not making a very good case for yourself, John. Sherlock would be appalled.  
  
"Firstly, the restraints. You don't need them. For Christ's sake, you know me!"  
  
He gave his wrists a hoist just to emphasise his point, but his gaze never left Mycroft's own. "And before you start pulling the 'oh, but are you really John Watson' card, don't. I've heard it all from Sherlock, and I get it. I lied. I lied, and I was wrong. I'm the bad guy, I stuffed it all up, and aside from my military duty in Afghanistan, most of my life is a lie. Happy? Is that what you want to hear?" He snarled; the man sounded angry, but his eyes told another story entirely. "That's why I'm in the restraints, yes? You've already deemed me a threat. I'll make a wager that you've even signed off on my paperwork to have me carted off to a restricted facility, yes?"  
  
For Heaven's sake, John - don't push it.  
  
"Cut me up, have my organs carted off to the most luxurious laboratories around the world? I believe there's an excellent one in France; I can forward you the details if you'd prefer. But wait, you want to talk, right?" He frowned. "You're not here for me, you're here for National Security. You're here to see where I've got my Armada parked, or if I'm here to infiltrate on a mission of reconnaissance. Surely, the mere notion that I'm here by accident is far beyond your thought process, for you've already made up your mind, correct?  
  
"I suppose if you consider me to be a threat, there's no point in arguing." He murmured, and dipped his head back and stared up blankly at the ceiling. "You're a stubborn old sod, and I'm naive to think otherwise.  
  
"But if you think that I'll do so much as 'cooperate', you can go sod it."

Mycroft had never been overly fond of John Watson. As a matter of fact, the only real positive impact that the little man had in his life was the fact that John cared about his little brother. Even that, though, wasn’t enough to make Mycroft actually like him. All it ever did was make Mycroft want to _use_ him.

So when John started talking, Mycroft didn’t respond. He barely even paid attention. He heard everything that John was saying, but Mycroft tuned him out.

It was all insufferable, anyway.

_‘Surely the mere notion that I’m here by accident is far beyond your thought process.’_

_‘You’re a stubborn old sod.’_

_‘You’ve already deemed me a threat. I’ll make a wager that you’ve even signed off on my paperwork to have me carted off to a restricted facility, yes?’_

_‘For Christ’s sake, you know me!’_

Mycroft didn’t feel that he had ever ‘known’ John Watson. He knew things about the man, but that was different than actually knowing him, wasn’t it? Knowing him would imply that they had some sort of interpersonal relationship. Mycroft didn’t have those with _anybody_. Some days he felt that he didn’t even know his own brother, just because they never sat down and spoke with one another about themselves. They talked about work, occasionally about their parents or other family members, and that was about it. Neither of them _wanted_ to open up in any other way.

There was only one thing keeping Mycroft here, and that was his desire to be the very first person who actually spoke to John. So far, the only ones who knew what John was were Tenford, Blake, and the X-ray technician, a harmless, elderly woman by the name of Jamie Croix.

Anthea knew too, of course. Mycroft trusted her more than he did anyone else, even more than he did Sherlock. He would trust Sherlock to solve a case if one was presented to him, for the most part, but he wouldn’t trust Sherlock with confidential information. He wouldn’t even trust Sherlock with his life. They had developed so much bad blood between them over the years. There was resentment on both of their parts, but Mycroft was much more willing to move past it than Sherlock. Sherlock was immature, holding on to his anger because he didn’t want to appear weak by forgiving his brother.

Forgiving him for _what_ , anyway? Yes, Mycroft had forced Sherlock to go away to rehab (three times) against his will. Was that really such a terrible thing, wanting his brother to be bloody healthy? And, yes, Mycroft had always been hard on his brother. He had set high standards and expressed disappointment when Sherlock didn’t meet or surpass them. He had only ever done it with the intention of encouraging Sherlock to be the very best he could be. If his brother didn’t catch on to that, well. It was hardly _Mycroft’s_ fault that he was too stupid to see.

Sherlock had always been such a stupid little boy.

John Watson was the one who was being stupid, now. Of course Mycroft had entertained the idea of sending him away to a lab, and performing exploratory surgery on him. He hadn’t ruled it out, but he did decide that it wasn’t going to happen just yet. There were other things on Mycroft’s mind, other things that he was making his priority.

One thing in particular—his brother, lying in the hospital bed in the room right across the hall from John’s, hooked up to various machines. Comatose.

Four doctors had looked over Sherlock since they had arrived at the hospital. They didn’t know what was causing his condition. Beyond the gash on his head, which wasn’t even all _that_ serious, they couldn’t determine why his blood pressure and pulse were high. They couldn’t agree on the reason for his unconscious state. Because of that, Mycroft found it difficult to consider the lot of them anything other than useless.

Mycroft waited patiently for John to finish rambling before he spoke. He looked up at John, one eyebrow lifted, and set his phone down, his fingers laced together and resting on his knee.

“Do calm yourself, Doctor Watson.”

As if saying that would actually make it happen.

“I feel I should inform you that I have read every text message exchanged between yourself and my brother regarding this…newfound information. The records have been since deleted, of course.”

Mycroft held up his hand to prevent John from speaking. If there was anything that annoyed him—there were many, _many_ things that rubbed Mycroft the wrong way—being interrupted was one of those things.

“I have also taken it upon myself to bring in a certain Steven—Stevran—Harold in for…” Mycroft turned his hand in a circle, the telltale sign of advising someone to finish the thought on their own, or that the speaker was trying to find a delicate way to do so. In this case, it was more of the latter, but really Mycroft was just trying to get John on edge more so than he already was.

“Questioning, shall we say.”

That had gone without a hitch. All Mycroft had done was order Anthea to watch the CCTV footage of the man who had bumped into him as he entered Baker Street. They had gone to his location and taken him; now he was being held in private flat in Brixton until Mycroft decided what to do with him. As of right now, he wasn’t feeling inclined to do anything that would benefit either him or John.

Mycroft uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again, lightly drumming the fingers of his left hand against the arm of the chair. John was frightened. Mycroft could tell. He was trying very hard to not show it, but Mycroft still _knew_. Anybody would be at least a bit apprehensive when they didn’t know what their future held, especially if a family member was involved.

“As you are, as you claim, a medical man, whether on your world or on ours, I assume that means you can repair the damage you have done to my brother. He is in a coma, Doctor Watson, and there is not a doubt in my mind that you are the one who put him into such a state. Whether you did it intentionally or not remains to be seen, but until I am convinced otherwise, I am inclined to err towards the former.”

Mycroft stood up and walked over to the window. The patient could see out of it, but nobody could see in. Not that it mattered; John was on one of the higher levels. Even so, there was no harm in exercising reasonable precautions. Or even unreasonable ones.

With his hands behind his back, Mycroft kept his gaze out the window. He had already looked at John, seen his alien appendages, and he didn’t care to see any more of them. While Mycroft did consider himself an open-minded person, he could also be the exact opposite when the mood struck him. Aliens! He had never thought about their existence, really, but now that he had living and breathing proof of them, he was intrigued, a bit.

Sherlock’s feelings were hurt to the point that he didn’t even want to learn about John’s species, really. Mycroft had read their texts and he knew his brother; he knew that Sherlock only asked the questions to save face, to appear as if he wasn’t as affected by everything as he was. Mycroft, on the other hand, wasn’t affected at all. He felt no sense of betrayal. His _feelings_ weren’t hurt. He did, now, believe that he didn’t trust Doctor Watson with his brother, really, but even that he was on the fence about. Up until this point, John had never done anything to hurt Sherlock. He had even saved his life on their first case. He had made Sherlock eat; he had cleaned up after him. He had looked for drugs in the flat when Mycroft told him to, he had refused to give information about Sherlock’s doings.

Everything pointed to the alien being trustworthy, right up until he had revealed what he was.

Before Mycroft could speak again, he was interrupted by a soft rapping on the door. Elizabeth Jenkins, one of the four doctors who had looked over Sherlock, was standing outside of the door. Mycroft gestured for the guards to let her enter inside (John was covered, after all). When the door was pulled inside, both men stood right in front of it, preventing John from leaving if he had tried.

“Yes?”

Jenkins was a timid young woman, barely thirty years old. She licked her lips and glanced up at Mycroft, only to promptly look away from him and down at her clipboard instead. She flipped through the pages, peaking at her notes and trying to decipher her own writing; it was true, doctors had the _worst_ handwriting…

“Doctor Jenkins.”

Mycroft didn’t have time for this tomfoolery. He had little to no sympathy for nervous individuals. When he was her age, he had met the Queen of England, the Prime Minister, and the United States President without so much as a flinch. They were, after all, only people, and Mycroft had known that his power would surpass their own sooner than later.

He had been right.

“ _Jenkins_.”

The woman jumped, startled, and she looked up at Mycroft, pushing her glasses further up on her nose. “Yes, Sir, sorry—sorry Sir. Um. Your brother—no, that’s not—I mean—Mr. Holmes, we just got the results of his EEG.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes as discreetly as possible and offered the girl a minute flash of a smile (fake, of course).

“Get to the point, please.”

“The point,” Jenkins repeated after a moment of hesitation. She nodded her head, as if the idea was the most fantastic one she had ever heard, as if she never would have considered to do it on her own. “Yes, yes, of course. The point. Okay, the point. Um, we’ve put him at a four on the GCS. That’s Glasgow Coma Scale, in case you didn’t…right, so, he’s a four. He’s in a deep, deep coma, but he’s not in it _so_ deep that his brain is showing no activity.”

Mycroft hummed softly. His phone buzzed inside his trouser pocket and he reached for it, glancing over the received email as he spoke again, sounding bored and uninterested as he drawled, “And what activity is it showing, then?"

“Pain.”

Jenkins was able to spit that word out quickly enough, although she looked regretful for even having to say it in the first place.

“He is in pain,” she continued. Now that she was in her element, able to talk about the medicine rather than having to face, for the first time, a man she had heard so many rumours about, she felt more confident.

“A lot of it. We’ve given him medication but it hasn’t even scratched the surface. The others are trying to work out a cocktail for him right now. We don’t want to give him _too_ much, because if his body wants to wake up but he’s sedated, obviously it won’t be able…anyway, it’s not only pain that he’s feeling. His EEG looked like a bloody Christmas tree. Different parts of it were lighting up. It was all over the place. It’s like his mind is going crazy, like he’s thinking about a billion things at once. The only thing that _wasn’t_ registering was his response to stimuli. We poked and prodded at him, we tested his eyes, we spoke to him; he didn’t register any of that, that we could tell.”

“And when will he wake up? Is there any indication?”

The woman furrowed her brow and shook her head. She tried to smile sympathetically, and failed.

“I’m sorry, Sir. Nothing as of yet.”

“Then go back to the others and figure out a way to fix this.” Mycroft waved his hand towards the door and Jenkins promptly left, the guards standing aside for her and then immediately resuming their same positions.

Mycroft, meanwhile, looked back out the window. There was nothing of interest to stare at, but even the single bird flying by was preferable to stare at than the man in the hospital bed. Although Mycroft did value knowledge and logic above all else—save for Sherlock, although he would never admit to that—he wasn’t going to ask the alien anything about himself just yet. Why?

Because he wanted to show John just how little he cared about him. As a person, as an alien, it didn’t matter.

“My brother is in excruciating pain, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said, steadily. Anyone who just heard him speak would think that he didn’t give a damn about the very thing he was saying. “And his thoughts are out of control. _That_ hasn’t happened to him since he was a child. It is why he turned to drugs.”

Mycroft slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and only then turned to face the alien lying on the bed.

“What do you plan to do in order to clean up the mess you have made?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that the spacing is wonky in the middle. My coauthor uses different spacing than I do, and for some reason I wasn't able to get it to transfer from Word to here. Thanks for reading and leaving feedback!

From the moment where Mycroft had used sophisticated intimidation tactics to encourage John into the back of a black jag, he'd been weary of the elder Holmes. The man hadn't simply worked his way up to his privileged position by simply 'working hard'; he'd been cunning, likely incredibly manipulative and he had the Holmes intelligence backing his every move. He'd even overheard the iceman claiming he had the fortunate to be the smarter of the pair, and he'd never  _actually_  heard Sherlock verbally deny that. Perhaps, there was some truth to Mycroft's frequented brags.

 

And aside from Mycroft consistently throwing his weight around, John usually had the luxury of being able to dodge his requests or orders with ease; and having Sherlock within his vicinity generally helped. Granted, there'd be a time or two when he'd reluctantly take on a case intended for the younger Holmes to solve, but Sherlock had always never been too far behind. Despite all reasonable doubt, denying a case just wasn't in his nature. But with that aside, John often  _did_  wonder if it'd just been a sneaky way to 'train' John in the art of deductive methodology, but it was more than likely that the man was just lazy.

 

John was man enough to admit that he and Mycroft were  _far_  from what you could call 'friends' (even colleagues), but he never considered that they shared bad blood between them. He'd even go so far as to admit that he'd formed somewhat of a weak fondness towards him as time had progressed. Key word,  _weak_.

 

But oh, how easily things could change.

 

And so they had, apparently. The tides had turned; those intimidation tactics suddenly became...

 

 

_'I have also taken it upon myself to bring in a certain Steven—Stevran—Harold in for...'_

_'Questioning, shall we say'._

 

Mycroft had laid down the first card, and John had to admit it's effectiveness. He felt his face visibly drop and his expression falter in simultaneous succession with his quickening heart. It shouldn't have surprised him, really, to find that Mycroft had the insight to take a stab at his heart; his achilees heel, he should say. The man had the resources and the knowhow to track down even the most elusive criminal in all of London, and he'd gone and snatched up an easy bargaining chip. 

 

His son.

 

He'd taken the boy, possibly even had him plucked from his own home; a young man who had already been severely emotionally compromised and possibly even contemplating suicide, and he'd now been covertly  _arrested_  and detained. So not only had his biological father ruined his life by presenting him with a daunting revelation as to his oncoming adolescent-related changes, but he'd put his own son in a position where his freedom and safety could be permanently removed from his life.

 

"If you have touched a hand on his bloody  **head** -"

 

He didn't even get a chance to bring his case forward; Mycroft was one step ahead and had thrown a hand out to signal for his silence. He couldn't be reasoned with; he was a  _tyrant_. A cruel, callous bastard who was willing to wave Stevran's life before his own so he could upgrade his position of power for the sake of keeping John in check. His muscled tensed and he balled his hands up into tightening fists, and his breathing became light, but a short breath occasionally slipped as he'd briefly lose all rhythm in his respiration rate. He couldn't argue, he couldn't move and he couldn't sock Mycroft in the jaw; he was  _stuck_ , and helpless.

 

And  _weak_.

 

His jaw clenched as Mycroft continued to calmly waffle on, and the anger levels were certainly rising in John. A subtle taste of iron running over his tongue gave John cause to believe that he'd bitten his bottom lip in the process; his body subsequently tensing to an uncomfortable rigidity as time went on.

 

But anger and fear for his son were suddenly met with grave concerns for another.

 

_You can repair the damage you have done to my brother._

_He is in a coma._

 

"A... Coma."

 

Despite Mycroft having the audacity to insinuate that John had done this on  _purpose_ , it was always within Mycroft's nature to turn to family rather than foe. But alas, his accusations didn't change the fact that Sherlock was in a  _coma_. And yes, it was due to John's carelessness, but it was by far  _no means_  intentional. He hadn't meant to hurt Sherlock; but on that note, he wasn't quite sure  _what_  he'd hoped to achieve. All he could recall was intervening with his son, arguing and pleading with Sherlock for forgiveness and thrusting his hand out and drawing their heads together and -

 

Memories, images, thoughts, feelings and  _experiences_  had bombarded his mind like a relentless hurricane. What felt like hours had likely been seconds but during those seconds, he'd shared far more than just his mind whilst the pair had touched. He'd shared his  _heart_ , thus cementing the bond for the end of their days.

 

The act itself had been an innocent one at that, commonly known as the ' _jey'shea virhern'_  in his native tongue. The act itself was loosely translated to being something along the lines of 'crossing of the hearts', and most commonly performed at the most intimate of occasions between those engaged in the contract of matrimony. But aside from moments of intimacy, parents and children could exchange a familial bond, which curiously changed the name of the procedure to ' _jey'shea virhaya',_ but the loose translation was still the same. The people of his race had a rather unique dialect and the language was just as complex, but his saving grace was the Translator-chip embedded in the auditory and speech areas in his cerebral cortex.

 

But Sherlock was neither a biological relation, nor was he John's official partner in a romantic context.

 

_Sherlock **is**  family; he's always been my family._

 

Debates aside, both of those things weren't the issue. The issue  **was** , that John had performed it without permission (strike  _one_ ), and he'd performed it on an entirely different species (strike  _two_ ). Plus, John had been so inexperienced and out of practice with the art of  _jey'shea virhern_  that he hadn't known when to _stop_. In a perfect world, the instigator of the meld was meant to slowly coax himself and the other individual out of the trance in a peaceful, calm and relaxing manner. The exit was meant to be soothing, and without any absolute risk.

 

_Lack of permission resulted in resistance._

_Sherlock is human; we have different brains. Different 'wiring'._

_I ripped our minds apart - I literally **tore**  us apart._

 

In that moment of clarity, he felt absolutely vile. 

 

This  **was**  his fault, Sherlock being the way he was. Being forced and trapped into a coma because that was the only way his mind could likely deal with the bond. And given the medical knowledge that John had, his mind was already starting to concoct theories that attributed to the detectives present vegetative state. Intended or not, perhaps the restraints were appropriate. After all, Mycroft's extremely standoffish approach was starting to seem just that tad bit more reasonable, aside from unfairly incarcerating and putting the fear of God into his son.

 

And yes, he'd certainly get to that.

 

"Mycroft, I would  _never_ -"

 

Again, interrupted, but not by Mycroft this time round. One of the attending specialists on site who was allegedly treating Sherlock received approval to enter, and John merely had a front row seat as he watched, waited and listened as Jenkins dropped crucial details about Sherlock's condition. John mentally listed each symptom in his mind, grimacing at the bombshell that Sherlock was  _suffering_. 

 

He was in  **pain**.

 

Pain, that John had placed him in. From the sounds of it, Sherlock's mind was on  _fire_ ; and there was no telling as to what damage the meld had caused. Had John placed his thoughts into some sort of endless loop, or had he burnt out Sherlock's mind like an overloaded fusebox? A brain from John's own species was in his mind, predictable; but a human brain? It was all a guessing game at this point. His mind could collapse and his body could follow suit, or he could simply remain as he was now, a vegetable. But John was fairly confident in his assumptions that by doing  _nothing_  and not intervening would result in a lack of improvement, and Sherlock would be sentenced to a life stuck to his hospital bed with nothing but tubes and cables jutting out of his body day in, day out. But in reality, the human mind was only so strong, and working itself into overload and pulling itself into a state of hypertension was only going to lead to a burnout. They could sustain the body with life support, but sustaining an empty shell was moot. 

 

All in all, this wasn't good. And as John would say, it was a 'bit not good', actually.

 

He hadn't realised that he'd practically been holding his breath for the duration of Doctor Jenkins ramble, but tensions eased (ever so slightly) when she departed from the room and the doors swung closed behind her; the two guards resuming their positions immediately.

 

And so, he could finally plead his case.

 

' _What do you plan to do in order to clean up the mess you have made?'_

 

Good question, actually. But the intimidation wasn't doing John any favours and those incredibly cold eyes were scrutinising John and picking him to bits. The next words to come out of John's mouth in the next few minutes had to be significantly worth it, especially if he planned on fixing up this cock-up of a situation he'd thrown himself, Sherlock  _and_  Stevran in.

 

"It wasn't intentional. I didn't  **mean**  to hurt him, I would never-" He swallowed thickly, and he felt the bubbling anger return as he yanked heavily on the restraints latched around his wrists. "What happened, it wasn't... I could never-" This was terrible. The once confident Watson was finding it hard to even  _find_  the words to plead his case, and Mycroft really had him in a bind. No matter what he could say, Mycroft wouldn't take it well. 

 

John had lied, John was an alien and John had caused Sherlock pain; those were the only three facts that mattered.

 

"Do you honestly believe I would  **want**  to  _hurt_  him?" He trembled as the words dripped off his tongue like poison, and he jerked at all four restraints as his calmness began to wane.

 

"This hurts me as much as it hurts you, Mycroft. To hear of his condition, to hear that you've impounded my son like some sort of  _criminal_." He snarled. "And let me make myself  **very** , very clear.

 

"You leave him out of this. Understood? He's not  _involved_." He began, his breathing extremely controlled. "If you're going to punish someone, punish  _me_. You want an autopsy? Take my body, but if touch a hair on his head, I'll kill you." Now, his teeth were practically clenched; and fury was written all across his brow. 

 

Now that his minor threat had since been said, there remained the matter of the younger comatose Holmes.

 

"Now. Your  _brother_." He was making every bloody effort to calm himself down, more-so for the fact that his levels of apprehension were quite on par with his guilt. "Obviously, you'll need me to go  **to**  him in order to try and  **fix**  him." He paused, but his focus never straying from the physical embodiment of the Government who stood near his bed. "And to  _fix_  him, the restraints aren't going to help now, are they?" He sneered. "So let's take a step back and look at this logically, shall we? You need me to help, and lucky for you, I  _want_  to help. I'd  **love**  to help, in fact. And I suppose it's not as though I have a say in the matter anyway; I mean, you've got a gun pointed to Stevran's head. Of  _course_ , how could I say no?" He scoffed; his tone rife with sarcasm as a macabre chuckle followed.

 

"I'm afraid there's little I can do  **or**  tell you until you let me examine him, Mycroft." He stated in a 'matter-of-factly' tone. "Except for the fact that to repair the damage, it's very likely that I'll have to reconnect with his mind. If we do nothing, nothing gets fixed."

 

_And he dies._

 

"But before  **anything**  happens, Mycroft - something needs to be said."

 

_Just, just, don't._

_Stevran - think of your **son**._

 

"We've never seen eye to eye; I'm willing to acknowledge that - fine. You and me, we're two  _very_  different people. Species aside, worlds apart, it makes no sodding difference. You're a pain in the arse, and true to my word, on my own planet and amongst any other races I've come across, I've never met  _anyone_  quite as irritating as you. Honestly, I mean it. You're a prick in my side; a sodding  _wanker_ , and I've always held the belief that you would personally give Hitler a run for his money if you ever ran your own dictatorship. But each to their own, I suppose." _Right, because he'll certainly appreciate you comparing him to a tyrant._  

 

"But."

 

And  _here_  came the kicker.

 

"Differences aside, I was almost under the impression that we had  _both_  reached the level where we could see eye to eye. I mean,  _hell_ ; you even started calling me 'John'. Can you believe it? A first name basis,  _wow_." He scoffed. "We're not friends, but we've never been enemies, either. You and me, we've always been fighting for the greater good and I've  _always_  been on your side, as you have on mine." His gaze fell to the floor, his demeanour now coming across as a little less clipped.

 

"When I connected with Sherlock, I saw - I  _felt_  the love and respect that he has for you; mostly unconditional, of course." He shook his head. "Point is, all the things you've done for him, all the times you dragged him out of those drug dens and threw him in rehab; he never  _hated_  you. A bit of resentment, I'll admit. There was even a bit of gratitude, believe it or not."

 

_Rambling John, rambling._

 

"But when you were children, I  _saw_  how deeply you cared for him. I saw the lengths you went to so you could keep him  _safe_ ; I saw how worried you were when you thought he'd broken his arm after falling off the roof at your parent's Estate; I saw how furious you became when Redbeard accidentally bit Sherlock on the leg because he mistook him for a burglar, and I can still see your face when Sherlock was dragged into the back of an ambulance after his first OD on heroin. You don't need to deny it, I know how deeply you care for him, I  _know_.

 

"So I can understand your resentment towards me; me, what I did to Sherlock - seeing him the way he is, and knowing I did that."

 

His eyes rose to greet Mycroft once more, but they were underlined with a subtle red, accompanied by a moist glaze over the whites of his eyes. "But I  _want_  to save him, and fix this. I want my son back, and I want this madness to end.  **Now**. Today, alright? Things can go back to the way they were, you just have to give me a bloody  **chance!** "

 

 

There was absolutely no change on Mycroft’s face as John spoke. John was trying to, what? Frighten him, by struggling against his restraints? It wasn’t working. If John had freed himself, all Mycroft would have to do was call for the guards and they would be in the room in only a matter of seconds. No, Mycroft wasn’t afraid of John Watson. He never had been.

 

What he _was_ feeling towards the man was disdain. Disdain, distrust, annoyance, and anger. Mycroft didn’t believe John’s words about not doing what he had done to Sherlock on purpose. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t, but Mycroft, unlike his brother, was always one to err on the side of caution.

 

Caution was telling him that John had meant to harm his brother. Caution was telling him that releasing John’s son would be a very unwise decision, especially because Mycroft didn’t know what John would do to Sherlock.

 

 _If_ he allowed the alien to go to his brother in the first place.

 

John could very easily go and finish what he started. Kill Sherlock. Make it look unintentional. Accidental. Mycroft felt remarkably foolish for ever places any trust in John Watson in the first place. John had _seemed_ trustworthy, and Mycroft had been none the wiser. He was internally scolding himself, promising himself that he would never make such a mistake again, telling himself that he should have researched John Watson more _thoroughly_.

 

It was too late for that now. All Mycroft could do was try and fix his mistake.

 

Mycroft wondered what Sherlock would do if their positions were reversed. If Mycroft was the one in a coma, put into it by his best friend—not that Mycroft actually had a best friend, or any friend at all; the only relationship he _had_ was the one with Sherlock, and one could even hardly call it a relationship, as they really only saw one another when work needed to be done—then what would Sherlock do? Trust the one who had put him into the coma? Wait for a day, week, month, to see if his condition improved on its own?

 

Knowing Sherlock, he would do something stupid. That was not an insult to his brother, as such—it was simply a fact.

 

As John spoke, Mycroft continued to stare at him, looking at what little outline of his tail Mycroft could see, staring at his chest where he knew his ‘pouch’, as John had called it, was located. The thought of a male carrying a child disturbed him, but it was only because he wasn’t use to the idea, obviously having been born and raised in a world where, in nearly every species, it was the female who produced the young. The difference was intriguing, but not enough that it made Mycroft want to ask John any questions.

 

None about his biology, anyway.

 

“You care more about your son than you do my brother,” Mycroft said slowly. He wasn’t sure if he actually believed that or not, but he damn well wanted John to believe that he did. “And yet you expect me to trust you to take care of him. You would say and do anything to get your son out of my possession, even if that meant risking my brother’s life, wouldn’t you?”

 

It was a test, but it was also a valid point that Mycroft believed to be true. John had certainly developed a newfound loyalty to the boy that he hadn’t seen in years. Mycroft, surprisingly, knew what that was like. He had been Sherlock’s father more than their actual father had been. He had always been there, trying to keep Sherlock out of trouble or at least get him out of it, cleaning up after Sherlock when he made messes (literal and figurative), making decisions on his behalf when Mycroft knew that his brother would make the wrong one as he so often did.

 

Knowing that John had seen parts of Sherlock’s life—possibly even all of it, all of his memories, his experiences, his history, his thoughts, his feelings—made Mycroft feel…uneasy. There was a sourness in his stomach that wouldn’t goa way, no matter how much he tried to talk it down with logic. It was an invasion on his brother’s privacy, and even though Mycroft did the same thing, they were brothers. It was acceptable. When Mycroft did it, he had Sherlock’s best interest in mind. John doing it was just—intrusive. Purposeless.

 

Fortunately, Mycroft had spent forty-five years honing his ability to keep a perfectly straight face. Knowing that John had seen that side of him, through Sherlock, was incredibly unpleasant. Mycroft and Sherlock both valued their privacy. The things that John was talking about, Redbeard biting Sherlock, him falling off the roof of their parents’ estate—Sherlock wouldn’t have told him those things, Mycroft was certain. That meant that John had actually _seen_ them. Sherlock’s privacy had been violated. He had been _exposed_.

 

If he woke up, and if he remembered who he was, and if he knew what had happened, and if he was able to form a coherent train of thought—Mycroft could imagine that Sherlock would be very, _very_ displeased with the alien for doing what he did.

 

That was a good thing. It meant it would be easier to convince Sherlock to rid himself of John Watson once and for all. Sherlock was a sentimental fool, no matter how much he tried to deny and act otherwise. Compared to normal people, yes, he was cold, but compared to Mycroft he _was_ normal. It had always disappointed the elder Holmes, the fact that his brother couldn’t completely reign in his emotions and learn to dismiss them. All Sherlock was capable of doing was pretending like he didn’t have them.

 

Mycroft paced the length of the room, slowly. His arms were crossed over his chest, his gaze finally lowered towards the floor, rather than being directed at John. He was thinking. There were so many options, so many things that had to be handled delicately. John could kill Sherlock. He could demand to have his son released, first. Mycroft wasn’t going to do that.

 

“I must admit that I do not feel inclined to trust you at the moment, Doctor Watson. You understand, I’m certain. While it is true that you have never done anything to severely harm my brother, one must now wonder about your true motives.”

 

Mycroft paused just long enough to get his umbrella. He balanced the point on the ground and turned the handle of it in his hand, feeling that he needed something to occupy both his hands and body while he spoke.

 

“I have no assurance that you will not kill him the moment you lay your hand upon him. That is why I am hesitant to even allow you to do _that_. I have your son, yes, but what would stop you from killing my brother to spite me? Because you _care_ about him? Because you _love_ him?”

 

Mycroft sneered. He walked over to the bed and, supporting himself on the umbrella, leaned over it, lowering his voice to a hiss. While Mycroft never became physically violent, he certainly had a way of speaking, when he got _exceptionally_ furious—which he was now--, that could deliver just as painful a blow as a punch.

 

“You knew this would happen,” he murmured, his face only about a foot away from John’s, the words directed right into his ear. The accusatory, hateful words that Mycroft rarely ever spoke simply because he rarely ever _cared_ about something enough to get so personally involved.

 

“You knew that there was, at the very least, a possibility. Do not try to convince me otherwise because I will not believe you. I _know_ my brother. I know that he would not have given you his consent to do this to him. Sherlock values his pride above all else; had you not noticed? Perhaps you were too stupid too, just as he was too stupid to notice that you are not _human_.”

 

Mycroft inhaled, slowly and softly, as if coming to a grand realization. “I had the excuse of no giving you the time of day. Sherlock lived with you. But then, he did trust you, didn’t he? He must never have even thought about questioning anything you told him. Why would he? You’re his _friend_ , aren’t you, John? The only one he’s ever had. The only one he ever _will_ have, now. After all, do you really believe he’ll ever let himself become attached to anyone else ever again?”

 

Mycroft didn’t believe Sherlock would, and he was never wrong.

 

The elder Holmes straightened himself up and walked back over to the window, looking out it once more as if he hadn’t a care in the world. His brother was dying, potentially, across the hall, but Mycroft’s face was stony. Blank. The words he had just hissed into John’s ear had been filled with venom and fury, but anyone who just happened to glance in at Mycroft Holmes at that second would see a man who felt nothing but inner serenity.

 

“Perhaps I should try to extract information from your son,” Mycroft mused, speaking innocently as though it was really just a passing thought. “He has been stricken with amnesia, yes, but I’m sure we can find a way around that. Blunt force trauma to the head, perhaps? Reminding him of his mother’s death? Telling him about his unborn _sister_?”

 

Mycroft smirked, although it wasn’t the sort of teasing, playful smirk that Sherlock was notorious for. Mycroft’s was much more…sinister.

 

“Even if he cannot recall anything from his youth about what you may have done and how it is affecting Sherlock, at least we will learn about your species as a whole. I am quite certain it is _marvelous_ , John.” The smirk on his lips widened, just so. “That’s what you want me to call you, is it not? _John?_ ”

 

The more Mycroft spoke, the angrier he got. His voice was still calm and he wasn’t touching John or inflicting any physical harm on him, by any means, but he felt enraged. He was furious at himself for not researching John Watson more thoroughly, still; he was angry at John for doing what he had done, be it intentionally or not—and he was furious that John was giving him such an _attitude_ about it, as if he were positively faultless in this (at least, that was how Mycroft heard it, but in things such as this, one did tend to have selective hearing)—and he was furious at Sherlock for falling into such a foolish trap as _sentimentality_.

 

Mycroft moved back over to John’s bed and peered down at him, one eyebrow raised, a pleasant, polite smile on his face.

 

“You said you would kill me if I touched a hair on his head. Fortunately, I do not condone physical violence. I will not lay a hand on him, myself. I pay people to do such things. And if you, John, _do_ kill me, do you think Sherlock will forgive you for it? After all, you said so yourself—he _loves_ me. Knowing that you killed the brother he loves to save the son you hadn’t even been _searching_ for will surely make him feel even more like a mere pawn to you than he already does, don’t you think? After all, Sherlock was the one who found Steven, not me. He only told you that in yet another vain effort to preserve his pride. He refused to let you know that he was doing something _kind_.”

 

Mycroft’s phone vibrated inside of his pocket. He got it out and skimmed over the message, then looked at John.

“I hope you have learned by now that nothing good will ever, _ever_ come from lying to Sherlock Holmes. Do believe me. I learned that lesson the hard way.” Mycroft’s smile widened, as if he were telling John, ‘you’re welcome for that valuable piece of wisdom I have just imparted upon you’.

 

“Have you any questions before I take my leave? As much as I have enjoyed our little— _chat_ —there _are_ other people and problems demanding my attention.”

 

"Questions? No. But I have something to say."  
  
_You care more about your son than you do my brother._  
  
John felt his heart wrench at the startlingly concrete insinuation that his love was taken by his son far more than it was by Sherlock, but a father's love for his child far differed to that of platonic or romantic love in this given context. In all the worlds that John had seen and in all the species that he'd encountered, a father had a naturally biologically ingrained instinct to fiercely protect his young. On his planet in particular, the father obviously bore a stronger chemical connection to the child that he'd gestate and nurture for the better portion of six months, but the notion of parenthood was uniquely dispersed between both mother and father. The mother would create, but the father would provide and protect. Many other native fauna shared such a relationship on his home world, but otherwise, it was a biological exchange that was fairly limited and unique to his home planet.  
  
"Of course I care about my son." He said, but his words were treading through the conversation with an incredible degree of trepidation. "You don't have children, Mycroft. You couldn't possibly understand the love I feel for my child. The type of love that comes with being a father; the type of fear that results when I hear that a man I thought I could trust is planning on belting him across the side of the head to 'cure' his amnesia." He stared blankly at the wall, his gaze no longer fixed on Mycroft. Staring daggers at him wasn't going to help, nor was shouting. John was restrained and utterly helpless at this point, and whilst he'd never been the type to beg, the stakes had changed.  
  
Sherlock was dying, and his son was in danger and something had to be done.  
  
"So yes, I love my son." He closed his eyes to trap the moistness welling behind his lids. He could hide the pain in his eyes temporarily, but his voice told a different story. He sounded... Broken. Like a man who was bordering on contemplating his own suicide (which, he hadn't once been far from that), or a man who had simply lost everything.  
  
And perhaps, he already had.  
  
"I love him more than I do your brother, if that's what you want to hear. I love my son, and I loved my daughter." John was almost in disbelief at how crass the elder Holmes was being with respect to the child he'd lost, but this was Mycroft Holmes. He'd even gone so far as to make an unfair jibe at the loss of John's wife and the mother of his children, but fighting fire with fire wasn't a suitable tactic in this given scenario. He was the weaker one; his stubbornness would no longer save him. If he wanted to get through to the ice man, launching an assault wasn't going to work.  
  
"My wife? Oh, I loved her to. Mari'asha, her name was. Worked as a nurse. Hated the colour yellow. Never wanted children, but then again, neither did I at one point." As he pictured the strawberry-blonde in his thoughts, his tension eased but a moment and he felt his shoulders soften against the hardness of the hospital-grade mattress. He'd long since mourned and grieved and had moved on from his loss long ago, but it still hurt.  
  
Losing both his wife and that baby, it felt awful.  
  
"I loved her, and my daughter, but I still love my son." He murmured softly, his fleeting moment of happiness starting to falter as reality set back in. "But, as for Sherlock?"  
  
A lengthy pause, and that familiar tightness gripped his chest as his eyes slowly peeled back open; the redness of his fear and anguish written all over his face. "I love him. Love. He doesn't love me, of course. I know that." His wrists and ankles slumped loosely within the confines of his restraints.  
  
"I'm well aware that Sherlock opened up to me in a way that he'd never done so beforehand. I'm aware that he instilled a certain degree of trust in me that he wouldn't have ever bothered to do before." Anxiety crept back into his voice as it intertwined with the fear that remained for his son's welfare, and his words became breathy and tiresome as he voiced out his plea. "Before I met him, I was so alone, Mycroft. I had nobody but a few close confidants; and even then, I wouldn't go so far as to call them my friends." Mike, perhaps. But Harry? Absolutely not.  
  
"Meeting Sherlock wasn't how I thought the rest of my life on Earth would pan out. I wasn't planning on looking for a flat-share, not when I'd planned on-" Well, the details weren't important. That day had always stirred up particularly conflicting emotions within the doctor that he'd never quite discussed with Sherlock, but he'd always felt as though it didn't need to be said. "Point is, we connected. He found a friend, and I found another reason to live. I mean, I'd lost my entire family in a night-"  
  
Or so I'd thought.  
  
"My point is, that Sherlock filled in a particular emptiness that I'd had for a long, long time. Heaven forbid, that connection started to turn into something that you could almost call a..." He tried waving his hand around to demonstrate, but it hit the roughness of the restraints and he huffed out of annoyance. "Bond. A biological connection. Hard to describe and there's a few different subtypes but the point is, it exists. It's real. I can feel it... I can feel his fear, and I'm aware that I caused it. It was me." He was already on the warpath to honesty, so he figured that being as upfront as he could be might be enough to sway Mycroft to allow John to act.  
  
"And the connection that I made - I can fix it. I know I can, you honestly just have to give me a chance." He begged. And yes, he was begging. "I don't want him dead. I don't want to kill him to spite you; for Christ's sake, you know I'd take a bullet for that man!" He needed to take a second or two to recompose himself; after all, he had to stay level headed. Mycroft didn't respond to violence, it seemed.  
  
Actually, he didn't really respond to anything but a plea bargain; if that.  
  
"Let me help. Let me fix the damage I've caused. Hold a gun to my head if you have to, but please." This time, he finally turned back to Mycroft, this time he appeared incredibly defeated and all hope was felt to be lost. "There's nothing to gain from hurting him; I'll fix him, make him well and then..."  
  
With Mycroft, dealing with him all came down to a solid ultimatum.  
  
"You can take me. I'll tell you everything I know; I'll cooperate. If you want me dead, you can have my body." This time, his hands clenched, but merely because wasn't entirely fond of the idea of giving up his freedom entirely. "I'll take you to the wreckage of my ship, and whatever technology that can be salvaged, you can have it. I'll even show you how it works." He lowered his head, his gaze filtering away as he felt that he could no longer sustain eye contact with his captor. "There's just one thing that I want - one thing that I am begging you to do, and I know I'm not in a position to make demands but if you could please just fulfill just one..."

  
"My son."  
  
Mycroft's not going to bother; he's got me, and he's got Stevran. Why would he risk letting an alien go off into the middle of London to frolic and do whatever he likes? He's a liability to the country, if not the Earth. No, Mycroft won't be so accommodating; he's 'Mycroft'.  
  
"He needs to take regular doses of a chemical solution to suppress his changes." Which reminded John; so did he. He had to take his own blend of formula every fourteen hours or so, and he was likely due for his next one within the next couple of hours. By skipping one, that ran the risk of gaining a tolerance to the concoction, and he wasn't keen on the idea of having to spend days in a lab to formulate the next batch that would keep him going for an indefinite amount of time. But John feared that he had not even a few hours or so, for his chest, back, shoulders and neck were starting to be irritated with a familiar itch, and come this time tomorrow (without any medication), he'd look exactly like the alien that he was.  
  
Fur, scales and all.  
  
"I can provide the formula, and I can provide the data. He's smart enough that he can do it on his own; I just need him to take it so he'll remain.." He swallowed thickly. 'Normal."  
  
He felt terrible saying such a thing; on his home planet, Stevran would likely be every bit as handsome as his father. Well, that was a bit of a lie. John had always been a bit dumpy and short, but Stevran took after his mother. She was tall, leggy and waif-thin; and his son had already long since surpassed John in height.  
  
"I know I'm asking a lot, but I'm willing to cooperate." He frowned. "I just... Look, he's just a kid. He's studying at Medical School, and he's incredibly bright. He has an adoptive family that will be worried sick about him, and he's never put a foot wrong. He doesn't get into trouble, he stays away from that stuff. But right now, he's terrified. He doesn't know what the hell is going on and he just wants to go back to his home.  
  
"I've made a mistake and I'm willing to set things right. I'm willing you to offer up my life, even. But my son-" He had to keep his breathing steady so he wouldn't break down. He couldn't; not right in front of the ice man. "I just want you to let him go. Leave him be; please.  
  
"I want to help."

 

 

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. He still didn’t believe he could trust John, but he knew that his options were limited. Either he took a risk—something that Mycroft didn’t care to do but did, from time to time, have to—and trusted John with his brother’s health, or he let Sherlock stay in his coma. In pain.

 

Neither option was good.

 

“It will break my brother’s heart, hearing that you love your son more than you do him,” Mycroft said, then shrugged. “Not that he hasn’t already figured it out. Perhaps it really is best that I let both you and your son go, then. It will destroy my brother, but at least it will encourage him to keep away from you.”

 

Mycroft smiled politely. “Not that he’ll need any encouragement, after what you’ve done to him.”

 

Sherlock would. He was forgiving, that idiot. Mycroft knew all about how the people at Scotland Yard treated his brother, and yet Sherlock continued to go in and assist them on cases. It was more for the puzzle than it was for their benefit, Mycroft knew that, but he could have just as easily focused solely on his private cases or even found kinder individuals at New Scotland Yard to work with.

 

Not that Mycroft knew anything about being _kind_. He knew how to fake it, and he knew what practical benefits it could offer, but he was, by no means, a genial man.

 

John was incorrect in saying that Mycroft didn’t know how it felt to be a father, but he kept that to himself. Mycroft knew exactly how it felt. While it was true that he had no biological children of his own, he had always been incredibly mature for his age. Because of that, their parents, who were idiots—loving idiots, but idiots all the same—had oftentimes left to go on holiday or business trips, leaving Mycroft to watch over little Sherlock.

 

‘If there’s a problem, dear, just call the neighbours or Grandma! Everything will be _fine_!’

 

Mycroft hadn’t had a childhood. He hadn’t wanted one either, granted, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have been given one. From the time Sherlock was born, Mycroft felt the boy was his responsibility. He taught Sherlock; he looked after him. He provided for him, either financially or otherwise. Mycroft considered himself to be more of a father to Sherlock than their real father had been.

 

Sherlock resented him for that. He resented Mycroft for raising him ‘incorrectly’, as he had put it as an angry teenager. Fortunately, Sherlock had grown out of blaming Mycroft for _that_ , but there were times when Mycroft still wondered if he had…done more harm than good, perhaps.

 

It had never been his intent, but it could very well have happened all the same. Even Mycroft Holmes made mistakes. Rarely, of course, but when he did make them, they were _huge_.

 

“You will help my brother,” Mycroft told John, his voice completely aloof and detached. “If you are successful in doing so, I will release your son. If you are not, I will have him executed after being _thoroughly_ examined.”

 

There was no use in threatening John himself. Mycroft knew it would hurt the alien far, far more if he were to be the cause of his son’s torture and death, rather than actually dying himself. Besides, John would probably commit suicide, anyway, if that were to happen.

 

He did seem the type.

 

After replying to the message he had just received, saying that he wouldn’t be back at the office for the duration of the day, Mycroft left John’s hospital room, signaling to the guards standing by the door (and two additional ones) that he wanted John brought to Sherlock’s. Mycroft crossed the hall and stood in the corner of his brother’s room, leaning against the wall as he waited.

 

Of course, even as Sherlock lie there, he was completely oblivious to what was happening. He was in such excruciating pain that, had he been able to, he would have cried out. He would have been _thrashing_. Instead he was a prisoner inside of his own mind, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to do anything.

 

And yet, he was thinking. None of the thoughts were of his choosing. Instead, they kept assaulting his mind, one right after another.

 

They weren’t only thoughts, but memories. Not only memories, but emotions. Not only emotions, but reactions. And they weren’t even his _own_. Some were. He saw, through his own eyes, himself when Redbeard was put down. He saw the first time he had accidentally walked in on his Uncle Rudy and saw the man wearing a short skirt (and _not_ pulling it off). He saw himself being bullied in primary school, and then again in secondary school. The difference between the years was that he had been a kind child— _sweet_ , even—when he was in primary school. Only a few years later, the very first time he was hit, Sherlock hit the other boy right back, right in his face.

 

That had continued on throughout his entire life. Sherlock wouldn’t often start physical fights (unless it was during a four-year period when he had been active in an underground street-fighting ring to earn extra cash to buy drugs), but he had no qualms whatsoever about finishing them.

 

Whatever was happening to him, it was just as people said: his life was flashing before his eyes.

 

Was he dying?

 

He must be.

 

The strange thing, though, was that he was also seeing _John’s_ memories. He saw, through John’s eyes, when he first met the female who would become his future wife. Covered in scales and fur as she was, he could still _feel_ that John found her attractive. He saw Stevran in John’s arms after he had been pulled free of John’s pouch, fully formed and healthy, and could see a single tear drip from John’s eyes onto the infant’s body. He could hear alarms blaring and see lights flashing as the small spaceship entered into Earth’s atmosphere, quaking and spiraling out of control, and then he felt his body convulse when the ship came into contact with the ground.

 

Then there was the heartbreaking revelation that both his daughter and wife were dead and his son was nowhere to be found.

 

 _Sherlock_ still didn’t, personally, feel any real sadness in regard to that fact, but he could still tell exactly how John had felt. _Exactly_. There were more tears, this time, and a crushing weight that sat upon his chest, the sensation of his heart being ripped right out of his body and worms crawling about in his stomach.

 

It was awful. The onslaught of emotions was unlike anything Sherlock had ever experienced before, and no matter how he tried to box things up in his mind palace, it simply _was not helping_. Every time he shoved one of John’s memories or feelings into a closet, the door burst open and it was out again, right in his face and in the forefront of his mind. The rooms were being packed so tightly with so many things that Sherlock didn’t _want_ that the walls started to crack and crumble; the furniture was shaking, books fell off the shelves, the staircases split. It was like a bloody earthquake, but it was all caused by _emotion_.

 

Emotions that weren’t even his own.

 

Mycroft could only stand there, completely helpless, as his brother’s monitor started to beep rapidly. Sherlock’s heart rate and blood pressure were raising even higher, despite the sedation and medication that was constantly being fed to him through his IV.

 

Besides the first time Sherlock had overdosed, Mycroft couldn’t think of a time when he had felt more useless.

 

The doors opened and two of the guards appeared, moving to stand on either side of the door, inside, so the other two could bring John in.

 

Mycroft was too disgusted to even look at the man.

 

“You want to help, Doctor Watson? Do it.”

 

 

Even as he was roughly manhandled to his feet,  _even_  as he was hoisted to his legs that now felt as though they had the consistency of jello, John felt that this fleeting moment of freedom was enough to given a him flickering moment of hope. His wrists and ankles ached terribly from the soft, subtle bruising that was only just starting to break through the skin, the colours mixing in a bodily pallets of brown, black and blue. As thrilled as he was to be on his feet and to feel the cool, pristine linoleum beneath him, a tight grip on each shoulder surged him forward. Mycroft certainly didn't hire his security detail based on intelligence, but these men were certainly all muscle and John wasn't particularly in the mood to fight back. Not to mention, he was rather disproportionately outnumbered, and being on the run wasn't quite the life he wanted to lead.

 

John's first observation as he was shuffled along the floor was that his muscles felt incredibly lax; wobbly, in fact. Each step was carefully calculated and taken with care, simply out of fear that one wrong move might cause him to stumble and fall. It didn't take much of a diagnosis to determine that the softness in his musculature, in conjunction with his dry mouth and his ill-focusing vision was likely due to being sedated; and by John's estimate, it would have had to have been within the last four to six hours. Understandable though, especially since his body had been subjected to X-Rays, ultrasounds and Lord-knows what else. For all he knew, somebody could have put a hand in his...

 

No, he grimaced at the thought. That part of his body was intimate; sacred, even. The very notion that a doctor or scientist plunged his gloved hands into the sac to poke around and inspect made him physically sick, but it seemed like a logical assumption to make. By all accounts and purposes, these 'doctors' had stumbled across a 'human' marsupial; of  _course_  they were going to be curious. In their shoes, John would have been as giddy as an intern on their first spaceship. 

 

But, that aside, it still felt wrong.

 

Step by step, John couldn't help but feel a sadly foreign sensation that brushed by his lower thighs; a feeling that he'd long since had the luxury to suppress for the better portion of a decade. No longer was his alien appendage strapped tightly to the skin of his thigh, for it moved freely and hung a little limp as the two guards who flanked him on either side physically 'encouraged' him to keep going. It had long since been an age where he'd just let it 'hang out', so to speak; he'd keep it tightly bound during the day, and only let it out liberally right before bed. A decade-long duration with this approach hadn't really been that considerate to his spine, but staying uncomfortable as opposed to being exposed was a preferable option. Although in this instance, he really didn't have to worry about the latter. 

 

He'd already gone and sodded that all up.

 

"Happy to help,  _Mycroft_." 

 

Two formidable weapons were loaded, armed and ready to be used if needed; but John was fortunate that the guards stepped back to give John the breathing room that he required. It  _did_  feel a little bit strange to be performing such a delicate procedure in the full view of a small audience; they had a few select doctors, as well as the guards, and of course  _Mycroft_. And as 'spacious' as the room was, the walls felt as though they were closing in.

 

And the pressure was rising.  _Fast_.

 

As undignified as he was in his hospital gown and his bare feet, he side glanced at the EKG which spat out a barrage of readings; all of which were bordering on the red zone. O2 levels were crashing, his blood pressure was surging and his heart rate was strumming like a hummingbird. But what worried John  _more_ , was how  _terrified_  he suddenly felt in the presence of the man lying comatose before him. And yet, it wasn't  _John_  that felt terrified. It wasn't  _his_  terror, and it wasn't his fear, his pain and everything else that came with the turbulent concoction of emotions that started to seep through his mind as he circled around to the other side of the bed.

 

 _They belong to Sherlock_.

 

He gently hovered out his hand over Sherlock's forehead, but refrained as he began to mentally construct some sort of 'battle plan'; and sensitivity was key. To do this  _properly_ , he had to reconnect and reconstruct the bond with a meticulousness that he'd been so careless as to ignore beforehand. But since his last cock-up which had led to this problem in the first place, the 'bond' that had once started off as a nagging inkling had now been cemented into something that had almost become  _tangible_ ; a thing he could almost reach out and touch. 

 

But now wasn't the time to regret; now was the time to make amends. Besides, he had two lives to save; Sherlock, and Stevran's.

 

_Alright, mate. It's just you and me. We're going to be connected; I'm going to set you free._

 

" _Hels'he dar me'thatu Sherlock mira'sha_." He murmured quietly, much to the confusion of those who stood nearby and watched on. It wasn't so much customary to mutter something in his native tongue before partaking in this particular act (words generally need not be said), but it was almost... A prayer. Not a prayer in some sort of hokey-pokey religious aspect, but a phrase pertaining to good luck. And right now, he could use some.

 

" _Hels'he dar ma'thitu hers'yha miraht._ " He edged closer and once more hovered the palm of his right hand precariously over the patient, whilst his left hand now maintained a loose grip around Sherlock's own. He could feel the rapid pulse through his clammy palm, but he could also feel the life force that suddenly looped around his own on a different plane entirely. As he lowered and splayed his palm over Sherlock's forehead, a few more stray words were softly uttered beneath his breath as he felt his eyes slowly drift to a close, and with his vision, his thoughts began to sink deeper and deeper.

 

Deeper until he felt that they were no longer  _just_  his own.

 

* * *

 

 

" **Sherlock?** "

 

A room; he'd suddenly been confined to a room not much larger than the hospital room he was standing in. The walls lacked any interesting decor, and a single halogen seemed rather capable of flooding the room with a sickening glow. Oddly enough, this particular cube of a room lacked any decent furnishings; but it had a particular aroma that wafted through the stagnant atmosphere, and initially John couldn't quite pick it. He'd smelt it before, but not often. And was it pleasant? No. Absolutely not.

 

He swivelled around and began running his hands along the perimeter of the enclosure as he sought for a means of an escape, but that smell just continued to bombard his senses and he pegged his nose with his fingers; his faced scowled in distaste. Whatever that smell was, it felt incredibly misplaced;  _he_  felt incredibly misplaced in the current mindset that he was in.

 

Which felt like a good question, actually; why had he  _here_?

 

 **" _Hello_?" ** Sighing heavily and planting his forehead against the cold walls in defeat, he slowly trailed his fingers down the wall; his mind mentally cursing at the lack of progress he'd already made.

 

That is, until he felt his hand fall and rest against something hard, cold and  _round_.

 

A doorknob, it seemed.

 

Twisting it open, John swung the door open to the point where he almost passed out from overexertion. One step and a stumble later, and the ghostly glow of the halogen was swiftly replaced by marvellous chandeliers that hung from atop in a spacious corridor that looked as though it should have belonged to a manor. The walls were even lined with paintings that spanned centuries of human history, some ranging from the Renaissance to the times of the Tudors (John had always had a secret fascination for particular periods of history on Earth, far more so than his own). A plush, velvet carpet greeted his feet, but the corridor seemed  _endless_. Looking back and forth, he couldn't seem to focus on an end.

 

But that  _smell_ , it still remained.

 

" **Sherlock**!" He hollered, cupping his hands between his mouth to amplify his voice. He waited a moment or two, but was met with silence. 

 

That was, until he suddenly heard the energetic patter of feet surge over carpet from behind. In fact, they came on so fast that he didn't even get a moment to turn around to investigate, for a  _child_ (no older than eight or nine) breezed by him, and John could have  _sworn_  that he looked exactly like his son. The boy seemed dead set on making it to the other end of the corridor (wherever that was) and clearly wished to overtake John, especially given how fast he was running.  _And_ , he would have, but John was quick to grasp him softly by the shoulder and spin him around.

 

Okay,  _not_  Stevran. Not even  _close_ , actually.

 

He'd never seen the boy before in his life, but the boy bore a sense of familiarity that he couldn't quite place. Perhaps it was the eyes? Or the curly, tousled hair that reminded him of a particular crank that he knew. But all things aside, he wasn't even fussed on the nagging sensation that he  _knew_  this boy. What distracted him was the fact that the child looked absolutely devastated; tears were streaming down his puffy eyes and reddening cheeks. 

 

 **"Have you, have-"** He sniffed, but for his age, he seemed  _incredibly_ articulate.  **"Have you seen my Redbeard?"**

 

_Redbeard?_

 

Now where had he heard that name before?

 

**"I'm sorry, who is-"**

 

 **" _REDBEARD!_ " **As quickly as the child had appeared, a heavy bark (followed by the repugnant smell of wet dog - and suddenly, that smell made sense) accompanied an Irish Red Setter who barrelled down the hallway and slipped past John from behjind and the child was quick to pull away, his hands waving as he took off after his dog. John was almost in the process of chasing after them, but he perked up at the sound of a door swinging open further down the hall, and the boy and his dog suddenly changed direction and disappeared into the shadowed room. At the time he hadn't been aware as to why, but he felt incredibly compelled to launch himself on foot and find out  _what_  exactly was hidden in this 'mystery' room that had just opened up.

 

 **"Hey! Wait, who are you? Have you seen Sherlock?** " As he ran faster and faster, it felt like an effort to just to  _see_  the open doorway. Minutes, perhaps hours passed - but each step closer was fuelled on by sheer determination as he threw an arm out and latched his grip around the doorframe and pulled himself into the darkened room. A loud 'thud' indicated that the door had slammed shut behind him (certainly hadn't been him who had shut it), but for a short moment he'd been concealed in nothing but darkness. 

 

And then, the lights turned on.

 

" **What in the world..."**

 

He was in Bart's. The morgue, to be specific - and at first glance, there wasn't a soul in sight. He was alone. 

Very much, alone.

 

" **Is anyone here?!"** He swivelled around, began running to all corners of the expansive setup and even went as far as to start checking the freezers where the bodies were generally stored, but nothing showed up. He was starting to get the very uneasy feeling that this mental endeavour was just a lost cause, and that all was lost. After all, how could he help Sherlock if he couldn't even find him?

 

" **Please..."** He begged, his voice starting to break.  **"I'm sorry. I am, and you can go on hating me for the rest of my life, but right now I need you to come back. Find me, Sherlock."** He turned around, his eyes desperately searching for a  _sign_. Anything that would indicate Sherlock's mental awareness of John's presence.

 

**" _Please._ "**

 

* * *

 

All sorts of things that weren’t supposed to be happening were happening. All sorts of things that _were_ supposed to be happening, weren’t.

 

Sherlock had never experienced this sort of madness inside his own head. There had been times when his mind had been insufferable, causing him to suffer through excruciating headaches, especially when he was an adolescent. When Mycroft had been living at home, he had been able to help. He hadn’t always been willing—he was not the best elder brother by any means—but he was, at least, capable.

 

Mycroft was the one who had told him to develop a fortress in his mind where he could store his memories. ‘Lock them up,’ he had told Sherlock, ‘and only open it up when you need something.’

 

Sherlock had done so. The building had started out small, but as he grew and learned more and more it had developed into a massive palace. It soon became too much for him; it started to take him longer and longer to find the information he needed in various situations. That was when Sherlock realised that he was filling his head with all sorts of rubbish that didn’t need to be there. He began to delete it.

 

How ironic. Maybe if he hadn’t deleted everything he had ever learned about the solar system, he would have been more prepared to learn what John was. It was doubtful, but possible. Anything was. Sherlock knew that, now.

 

It was impossible for Sherlock to tell where he was. He was in his own mind palace, and he knew _that_ , but even though he had used to be so familiar with the layout, knowing it like the back of his own hand, it was now something quite different. The hallways went in different directions; there were dead ends where they weren’t before. The rooms were spinning and some corridors seemed to never end. None of the rooms had windows, leaving him feeling completely trapped inside of his own head—which, unbeknownst to him, he _was_ —and he couldn’t even find the front door to escape.

 

After hours upon hours, or what he thought were hours and hours, of searching for an exit, Sherlock barged into a room. John’s room. It was the largest of anyone that he knew, containing all the factoids about John’s life that the doctor had ever given him, either verbally or just through Sherlock’s own observations.

 

Harry was sitting in an armchair, a bottle of vodka in her hand. She looked over at him, smirking, and slurred, **“Sssso. You’ve…you’ve f-fffinally figured it out, have you? Took you long enough, Mr. World’sss-Only-C-Conssulting-Detective. Ha!”**

She wasn’t real. Not in this context, not in this _role_. She was an alcoholic and a real person, but the representation of her didn’t belong _here_.

 

Even if she hadn’t mocked him, Sherlock would have done the same thing: he walked right over to her, gripped the front of her shirt, and dragged her over to the door, promptly pushing her out of the room. He wasn’t gentle about it; he wasn’t patient. She didn’t belong in the room so she had to _leave_.

 

Sherlock turned around and slammed the door shut behind him. He stared at the contents of John’s room and nearly whimpered (which was something he _never_ did). This wasn’t right. None of it was right! All of those childhood memories with Harry, they weren’t real! John’s primary and secondary schooling, his time at college and Uni, that wasn’t bloody real, either!

 

 _None_ of it was!

 

Sherlock knew what he had to do. He began to tear charts off the wall, pull books off the shelves—ones that he had seen John read; even the things that were real appeared to him to no longer be—and he tore them up, ripping out pages, breaking the spines. The lights in the room flickered on and off as he worked, but Sherlock continued to plow through, destroying everything that he could.

 

It was useless. As soon as he tore something up—John’s medical degree from Bart’s, for instance—it immediately reappeared, put back together as if nothing had been done to it in the first place. Sherlock turned around and looked at the destroyed books; they were all resting upon the shelf neatly, as if they had never been pulled off or torn up.

 

Harry was on the couch again, watching him, amused, and smirking.

 

Sherlock was out of breath. His chest was rising and falling as he panted; his face was hot and he could feel beads of sweat trailing down his brow, dripping off his nose. His sudden fit had taken a lot out of him, but it had all been for nothing. The room was neat and organised as it had been when he’d first entered.

 

It was useless. John had become such an integral and necessary part of Sherlock’s life that he couldn’t delete him. He wanted to—didn’t he?—but he couldn’t follow through. His own mind wouldn’t _let_ him. It was self-preservation at its finest; if he were to delete John Watson, Sherlock Holmes would cease to exist.

 

But that wasn’t the bond John was talking about. The idea crossed through Sherlock’s muddled mind, but it couldn’t have been. John had continued on living after his wife and daughter were killed. It wasn’t an issue of one partner dying when the other did, or heartbreak being the thing to cut their life short. It made them life out the rest of their life in misery, Sherlock could see that, but killing them?

 

No. It wasn’t deadly. It was just _horrible._

 

The walls began crumbling, moving closer around him as they closed in. He didn’t want to be trapped in this room, not with all of John’s factoids and memories and feelings. He had seen enough of them already, just because they had been _forced_ upon him, and it was more than enough.

 

It was too much.

 

He slammed his shoulder against the door once, twice, three times, until it finally flung open.

 

He started running.

 

* * *

 

 

The noise was what got Jim Moriarty’s attention. All that screaming, all that _racket_.

 

" **Is anyone here?!"**

**"Please…I'm sorry. I am, and you can go on hating me for the rest of my life, but right now I need you to come back. Find me, Sherlock."**

**“Please.”**

The criminal chuckled as he scuttled along, all eight of his black eyes shifting back and forth. Eight eyes and eight legs, all protruding from his sides, armored with a hard, jet-black exoskeleton and so tall that they lifted him off the ground. He had two chelicerae hanging out of his mouth, sharp, like two overly-large fangs.

 

Sherlock had thought of him as a spider, after all, so that was what he had become.

 

With one of the sharps ends on his front-right leg, Jim pushed open the door of the room the voice was coming from.

 

 **“You won’t find him like that, Johnny-Boy,”** Jim suddenly spoke, blinking each of his eyes simultaneously as they landed on the doctor. The poor man looked frightened—desperate. More than anything, though, guilty.

 

 

**“What makes you think he even wants to be found, hmm? After what you did to him…all those _lies_. You’ve lied to him more than I have, and you’re supposed to be his _friend_.”**

Despite his odd appearance, it was still very obviously _Jim_ who was speaking. He was smiling pleasantly, just as he had when he had met John and Sherlock for the first and only time at the pool where he’d killed the stupid Powers boy. Jim had no regrets about it then, and he had no regrets about it now. His voice, though heavily influenced by a venomous hiss, still held the familiar Irish lilt, that playfulness that one didn’t know whether to enjoy or fear.

 

Sherlock did both. That was why Jim liked him so much.

 

**“Although, what’s the point, anyway? Why are you even here? To assuage your own guilt? He hates you, you know. He won’t ever forgive you for this.”**

Whether that was true or not remained to be seen. The Spider was nothing more than a representation of the way Sherlock thought of Moriarty; it was a figment of his imagination based off a real person. As such, Moriarty—whether real or imaginary—was destined to be a master liar and manipulator.

 

Or maybe he was telling the truth. The truth of Sherlock’s subconscious.

 

Before either man—or, either the alien or the arachnid—could say anything further, the door was opened again and Sherlock barreled inside. He put his hands on his thighs and hunched over, panting to catch his breath. He couldn’t find his way out. He had been calm, at first, but now he was panicking.

 

It took a _lot_ to make Sherlock Holmes panic.

 

He saw Jim before he saw John.

 

**“Jim. Help me.”**

Of course the spider was surprised to hear such a request.

 

**“What’s this? The great Sherlock Holmes, asking for help? From a consulting criminal, no less?”**

**“Yes.”**

**“Say please.”**

**“I did.”**

**“No you didn’t. John, did he say ‘please’?”**

Sherlock froze. His breaths stopped and the only thing he could hear, suddenly, was his own heart beating, louder and faster. John was here. John was right here, in this room. Sherlock could see him now, from behind Jim’s legs.

 

 **“I’m sure John would be willing to help you,”** Jim continued, lifting two of his legs in a shrug. **“After all, he is your only friend, is he not? Your best. Friend. While I’ve never had one myself, I’ve come to believe that helping one another is what friends _do_.”**

After looking between the two men, Jim smirked.

 

**“I’ll leave you boys to it.”**

 

He was quick to scurry out of the room, leaving Sherlock and John behind.

 

For a moment, Sherlock didn’t speak. He couldn’t think of what to say, or even how to talk.  He could hear the clicking sound of Jim’s pointed legs getting softer and softer as he retreated down the corridor, sounds and sensations slowly being fed back into his body, but he still couldn’t talk.

 

 An eternity passed. And then another.

 

Even though he felt like a rabbit trapped in a cage, Sherlock straightened up. He cleared his throat and stared down his nose at John, attempting to regain and retain as much of his dignity as he could.

 

Which wasn’t much. It didn’t _work_.

 

 **“You ruined my mind palace,”** he told John bitterly, glaring at the other man, the imaginary representation. **“Although I suppose it wasn’t really _you,_ was it? It was the real you. The one I can’t trust. The one who lied to me every goddamn day since we’ve met.” ** Sherlock huffed a mirthless laugh. **“And to think, _I’m_ the one who people see as the bastard. Granted, I _am_ one, but…I digress.”**

Sherlock looked at the fake John, his expression open—he was in his own head, after all; he didn’t _have_ to maintain his pride, even though he normally did try to. It was plain on his face how angry he was, but more than that, how much he was _hurting_.

 

**“How could you do this to me, John? My only friend. The only person with whom I have ever willingly socialised The only person with whom I could ever see there being more with.**

**“Did you not ever think about how this would affect me? It is destroying my mind, John. Whatever you did to me, at Baker Street—that was only the tipping point. What _did_ you do? I don’t like it, whatever it was. I’d even go so far as to say that I hate it. You gave me memories of yours that I didn’t ask for, that I don’t want. And you’re seeing every goddamn thing that’s ever happened to me. You are emotionally raping me. Did it never occur to you that it might be a bad idea?”**

Maybe he was being harsh, but here in his mind, where he could speak without thinking about how others would react, he was free to do whatever he bloody wanted.

 

_You won’t find him like that, Johnny-Boy._

 

In retrospect, witnessing an arachnid representation of his arch nemesis wasn't exactly what he'd expected to see scuttling into view. It seemed poetically fitting, actually; John had always viewed Moriarty as nothing more than a spider, and Sherlock had often described him as such (and to some degree, with a sense of admiralty). But to John, he dared not think of him as something so glorious as a 'mastermind'. On the contrary, he was a waste of matter;  _insects_  had more breathing rights than he.

 

Speaking of air, the temperature in the room felt as though it'd dropped a solid ten degrees celsius as tension in the room thickened to the point where he felt he might suffocate. It felt horrible, but not nearly as terrible as the sight of Jim effortlessly alternate his legwork so to back John against the cold metal surface of the freezer-filled wall.

 

" **Moriarty**."

 

 _All_  those eyes, and he wasn't entirely sure as to which ones he needed to pay attention to. But when he found a pair to gaze at, he was easily unhinged by those perilous-looking fangs that practically oozed venom as they glinted to life as Jim purred his mocking words to the doctor. Just staring at such an abomination made John feel physically ill, but not simply because the sight of such a monstrosity struck fear into his heart; no, it wasn't that simple.

 

The mere fact that Sherlock had such a nightmare locked away with the grandness of his mentally constructed palace made John truly aware of how deep a burden that man truly carried. There'd been often a time where John would frequently have moments of envy for the perfectly rounded eidetic memory that Sherlock displayed (John's knowledge of science and medicine were excellent, but Sherlock's mind in a general sense was utterly profound), but never once had John assumed that with great brilliance, it carried a catch.

 

And didn't the saying go that  _everyone_  had their inner demons?

 

 **"Looking _well_ , I see. Fitting.**" 

 

He honestly had to flinch each time he heard the 'man' slip words off his tongue in such a sing-song manner, almost as if he were speaking down to a child. What was generally a relatively pleasant, charming accent was easily taken as manipulative and cold with Moriarty; his accent twisted into something cunning. Something cruel.

 

_This is all in your head; it's just a figment! Why are you scared?_

 

Wrong. A figment he may be, but this wasn't in John's head. Stepping into another's mind tended to be incredibly confusing for  _both_  parties involved. And as delicately as John had entered, it wasn't advisable to rattle the walls and kick down the doors. A mind was a delicate construction, and considering Sherlock's was essentially a palace (at present, mismatched and convoluted), treating this place as a war-zone wasn't advisable.

 

He allowed the figment to callously make harmful jibes at John's expense, but the alien paid him no mind. Instead, he watched. He  _listened_ , but he didn't let it get to him. This might have been one of the many monsters hidden in Sherlock's closet, but to the closet it would eventually return. 

 

 **"You think you're right, do you?"** Perhaps a bit of a shakedown was  _exactly_  what the walls of this realm required.  **"How about you go back to the web you-."**

 

The sudden jolt from the door swinging open and colliding with the wall was enough to cause John to catch his breath and his back to press hard against the freezers; even the spider's attention had been momentarily diverted as the man of the hour slipped mildly into view, yet slightly concealed behind one of the many legs of the detestable arachnid. 

 

At first, John couldn't quite get a decent view as to the identity of the stranger who'd barged in mid-conversation, but he could practically sense the exhaustion that seethed off of the panting man. He could see that the man had hunched over to wheeze through what seemed like something caught between overexertion and panic, but as he resumed a proper stance his identity became clear.

 

Signature black curls, pale skin and pointed features were enough to send John doubling over out of relief. Sherlock was  _here_ ; the real, honest, proper representation of the detective within the confines of his own mind. Whether or not he'd heard the cry from John, or had simply barged into the 'morgue' by chance was just a question without an answer, but John couldn't care less. Sherlock was here.

 

And together, he'd save him. He'd get him out, and they'd be able to make amends and rebuild.

 

He played audience to a brief exchange of words between nemesis and foe; Moriarty clearly bending his power of fear and torment over that of a terrified man. The spider was adequate in his role as being nothing more than a nightmare, and Sherlock was letting fear dictate his words; to make his decisions  _for_  him.

 

_Oh, Sherlock._

 

_Just how broken have you become? You are **so**  much stronger than this._

 

_So **very**  much stronger._

 

Just how long had it felt for Sherlock to be trapped within the walls of his mind? Had it felt like days? Months? An eternity was immeasurable but as similar to a lucid dream, time had no place or meaning. It was irrelevant, but an eternity paired irrelevance was enough to make the mind of a genius like Sherlock start to fray and tear. Not to mention, if the spider was but a single nightmare that Sherlock had concocted, then what  _else_  hid within the shadows of his fears? What else made him tremble?

 

What did he fear  _most_?

 

Relief swallowed his heart as he witnessed Moriarty take his leave; and finally, they were alone. Free of nightmares, free of fears; all but the fear that John had for the stability of their partnership.

 

 _Our relationship_.

 

The silence between them was deafening as they did nothing but  _stare;_ Sherlock was but a few feet away and John still had his back to the wall. Nothing happened, and nobody spoke.

 

Just like the real world, it seemed.

 

But when Sherlock found his voice, such came the onslaught that John had had little preparation for. The bombardment of accusations that bore a drenching of truth; one after the other and showing barely a sign of slowing down. He winced, he grimaced and chewed on his lower lip as he let words tear into his heart like daggers, each worse than the last. To each point Sherlock made, he could do nothing but nod. To each accusation brought to light, he could do nothing but  _agree_.

 

Sherlock was spot on. Correct. Never wrong, as he claimed. John was a liar; he  _is_ , a liar. Aside from a few minor truths, his life on Earth and the history attributed to such a life was essentially a colourful fabrication. In fact, after reciting his lies for the better portion of a decade, he'd almost started to believe them himself. And if he'd been upfront and honest about his unique origins from the start, there would be have been a _minor_  period of disbelief and shock, but they would have  _moved on_.

 

They would have sorted this crock from the start; perhaps, they would have been far closer than they were now.

 

But John had to bring his thoughts quickly into check; he'd had  **reasons**  for not being openly honest, and they were entirely valid. Point one; humans didn't know about sentient alien life (or any, for that matter, and such knowledge could be damaging to the entire population if John had been more liberal with telling one after the other. That was fair; his concerns were certainly warranted in that respect.

 

Point two; Sherlock didn't cope well with things that he just  _couldn't_  understand. Granted, there weren't many items that made it to that status, but John had grown so comfortable with just being 'John', it grew harder and harder to muster up  _any_  courage to be openly truthful. If plain old 'John' suddenly became 'extraterrestrial John', Sherlock wouldn't easily get a grasp on such a startling transition. Ergo, it'd likely throw a spanner in the works and could cause significant damage to what had  _once_  been such a smooth and stable friendship.

 

Point three;  _fear_. Basically tied in with point two, but he feared being taken away. He feared being experimented on, or being pinned to a table by the overly watchful, scrutinising eyes of Mycroft Holmes. Fear was an incredibly driving factor and over the years, it had moulded John into something of a coward. If he'd just been honest from the start, it would have been easier. Disbelief and a bit of fear would have been the likely result, but they could have moved  _past_  that. In time, things would have healed.

 

Key word;  _time_.

 

_You ruined my mind palace._

 

 **"I did."** His heart sunk, but he nodded.  **"I ruined it. I kicked down the door and I abused the privilege of your company. I ruined it, and I'm sorry."**

 

_It was the real you. The one I can't trust._

 

**"Again, you're right. You can't trust me, because I abused that trust. For that, I am sorry, Sherlock."**

 

_The one who lied to me every goddam day since we've met._

 

 **"You know, you're right about that as well.** " He pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked heavily to fight back the grief that vowed to make a vengeance in the form of glistening tears that were ready to break bank, but he fortunately refrained. The pain in his voice however, that was as clear as crystal.  **"I can't take back the blatant dishonesty I soiled our friendship with, but I can acknowledge it. I was wrong. I lied. All the days, minutes and seconds that I've known you; I've lied. Lying is easy; lying is what cowards do, what _lazy_  people do. That's what I am, Sherlock. A coward. A liar, a cheat and a coward. You are absolutely, utterly correct." **He paused, taking a moment to steady his breathing.  **"Everything I've done, even saving your life - what does that matter when I can't even justify myself as being an adequate friend? You deserve better, Sherlock. I don't _deserve_  you.**

 

 **"I never thought about it, no; _connecting_  with your mind, I mean. And that's the thing, I didn't  _think_." ** No, he'd  _acted_.  **"I feared that I'd lose you; that you'd walk out of my life because Stevran came back in. I acted on fear and I didn't think and _yes_ ; I  _raped_  your emotions, I raped your mind. And it never occurred to me, because I never even gave my mind a chance to weigh up the consequences. I acted as a fool, a coward, a terrible friend, a weakling, a rat-**" He choked on the last word, and felt his back slide against the surface behind him until he was on his behind; his knees slowly being brought up close to his chest.

 

**"So no, it never occurred to me that _raping_  your mind would be a bad idea. No. It never did, and all I can say is  _sorry_. Sorry for what I've done. Sorry for every way I've ever wronged you; sorry for  _fucking_  it all up."**

 

Sorry, sorry,  _sorry_. John wasn't sure such a word could be repeated so many times during a single conversation, but here he stood, corrected. All he could do was apologise, and be as sincere as one could possibly be. After all, there was  _plenty_ riding on John being able to convince Sherlock to come  _back_  to consciousness; Stevran's life, for one.

 

 **"I can never take back the memories I've given you, nor can I remove the ones I've seen from your own mind.** " He swallowed thickly, his head now buried in his hands.  **"I can't fix this; you and me. I've sodded it up. I well and truly have made a mockery of our friendship."** At this point, his words were falling apart; his voice sounded strained and incredibly choked up.  **"But our friendship... Look, the consequences are mine to bear. The love and respect I have for you, that will always remain. But right now..."** He fought back a sob. **"You need to wake up."**

 

And so, the issue of John's visit came to light.

 

 **"Your body is dying, Sherlock.** " He couldn't bring himself to look at the man, all he could do was stare into the darkness within the splayed palms of his hands.  **"Your blood pressure is astronomically high, your heart rate is off the charts; crashed O2 levels, everything. Right now, I'm standing beside your bed and I'm holding your hand. Mycroft is beside me."**

**"So either you let me help you to wake up, or you die. You will die.** **And as much as I've fucked this up, _please don't die_.** **_Please_."**

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still having some issues with the spacing between some lines...I'm not sure why. I take like 20 minutes fixing it, but then I post it and it's not changed at all, so...maybe it's destined to be that way, haha.

**_“Your body is dying, Sherlock.”_ **

 

Dying?

 

It made sense, Sherlock supposed. After all, his mind was destroying itself. With the walls falling and closing in, the once-lengthy corridors turning into nothing but dead ends, Sherlock was quite certain that his mind was imploding. Maybe once it did, it would do the reverse and explode, a sort of reverse-Big Bang (at least, according to some theories).

 

How ironic that would be. The very thing that created the universe would be the one to take him out of it.

 

Even as he thought it, Sherlock knew that it was absolute nonsense. He wasn’t able to think. Subject matter was being shattered inside of his own head. What if he _did_ wake up? John obviously wanted him to, but what if he woke up and didn’t remember who he was? What if he woke up and was just—normal? What sort of life would that be?

 

 _Maybe a better one than you’re living now. You’re feeling it already, aren’t you? Normal. All because he fooled you, Sherlock Holmes. You let yourself_ care _, and look where it got you._

 

No. No! Sherlock didn’t want to think that. God help him, he didn’t want to, but he didn’t know how to _stop_.

 

Sherlock did nothing but stare at the other man. He didn’t feel able to bring himself to do anything else. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to _do_. How did people normally react in these situations? Self-help books? Therapy? _Talking_?

 

Christ. No, no, and most certainly not.

 

Sherlock knew none of those methods would work for him, if for no other reason than the fact that he wouldn’t let them. He was a stubborn man, everybody knew that. Most people he interacted with on a regular basis had learned it from experience. Mrs. Hudson, John, and Mycroft, especially.

 

**_“Right now, I’m standing beside your bed and I’m holding your hand. Mycroft is beside me.”_ **

Not holding his other hand, Sherlock hoped.

 

Sherlock looked down at his hands. He didn’t know how he knew, but he could just _feel_ that John was holding on to his right one. It felt warmer, and there was the slightest bit of pressure against the top of his hand and his palm.

 

That was true, then. Finally something was.

 

For a good, long while, Sherlock said nothing. He continued to stare at John and just _think_.

 

There were pros and cons to removing John from his life. The pros, he wouldn’t have to deal with the humiliation, however internal it was, that John had successfully kept this from him. He wouldn’t have a personified representation of someone who was _smarter_ than him walking about his flat. He wouldn’t have to deal with Stevran—even though, if he were being honest, the boy hadn’t been _quite_ as bad as Sherlock had expected him to be—or the sob-stories about John’s deceased family members. He wouldn’t have to put up with John’s temper; he wouldn’t be hounded to watch those ridiculous James Bond films. Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be constantly lecturing him on how he needed to be ‘nicer, like John’.

 

He could use the upstairs bedroom as a second laboratory. Now that his name was out in the world (which was due to John’s blog; Sherlock knew and respected that fact, even though he didn’t like to think about it), he could accept money for his cases when needed, or ‘borrow’ it from Mycroft. Besides, Mrs. Hudson had come to think of them both as her sons. She wouldn’t kick them out.

 

The pros of keeping John around…well. He _was_ John, wasn’t he? Whether alien or human, a liar or not, he could still make a damn good cup of tea. He was still witty. He wasn’t afraid to stand up to Sherlock. He was good with a gun; he enjoyed the cases. Catching criminals, putting them behind bars, saving people. Of course Sherlock didn’t care about any of that, all he wanted to do was solve the puzzle, but at least John took care of the rest of it. John was the first person who had ever told him that his observational skills were amazing—extraordinary. He was the first who didn’t look at him as some token who had a parlor trick up their sleeve.

 

Despite the lies and the irritability and blame that had come from them, Sherlock knew one thing. If he did send John away, he _would_ miss him.

 

 **“I do not know what to do,”** Sherlock admitted, although he wasn’t necessarily speaking to John—more to himself, really, but as he was in his own head, his thoughts verbalized themselves.

 

**“I do want to put this all behind us. Truly. I simply do not know _how_.”**

 

Sherlock lifted his hand and rubbed it over his face, sighing heavily. He had to think, and yet, thinking seemed to be the very last thing that he could do. His thoughts were convoluted and it was _noisy_ where they were. Crashes, explosions, the sounds of the building creaking around them, threatening to collapse. People were screaming, but Sherlock didn’t even know who they _were_.

 

**“How did Mycroft react when he found out about you?”**

**“Trying to imitate me again, are you, little brother?”**

Sherlock’s question had, obviously, been posed towards John. However, as he turned his head to the left, to the sound of his brother’s voice, Sherlock could see the very real and very _large_ figure of his brother. Mycroft was enormous, standing ten feet tall, and glaring down at him contemptuously.

 

In addition to Mycroft being even taller than his real self, Sherlock was smaller. He realised that, now. His head was lined up with the laboratory counter, no more than the size of a child. Mycroft was getting ready to _scold_ him. That was all this was. He had lived through it numerous times before, and while it was always a horrid thing to be reminded of his own stupidity, sometimes it had to be done in order to make him _better_.

 

**“I’m not trying to imitate you!”**

His own voice was childlike, but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to glance at John to see how he was reacting to that. He was afraid to take his eyes off of Mycroft. The man was towering over him, _terrifying_ , and Sherlock didn’t _trust_ him.

 

Then again, did he trust John, either?

 

 **“Yes you are,”** Mycroft said coolly. **“You and I both know it. John does, too. If you weren’t so stupid—”**

**“I’m not stupid!”**

**“You are. You’re a _very_ stupid little boy. I did warn you about this, didn’t I? I warned you to not get involved, but you _did_. Such a disappointment to us all.”**

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. His eyes were beginning to burn, but the little boy brought his hand up and wiped at them. He wasn’t going to cry. He _wasn’t_ a disappointment. Mummy and Daddy would never really think that about him, would they? Mycroft might…but as long as Mummy and Daddy didn’t, it didn’t _matter_.

 

As long as John didn’t, it didn’t matter.

 

 **“Tell me how he reacted,”** Sherlock commanded, turning his head to look at John. Even as a child, and an upset one at that, he had no qualms about asking for what he wanted—demanding it.

 

 **“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,”** Mycroft tutted, shaking his head as he sighed, clearly dissatisfied with his brother’s behavior. **“You do not need him to tell you. Narrow it does for yourself. How do _you_ believe I would have reacted? What would _I_** **do?”**

Little Sherlock had to stop and think. He could feel John’s and Mycroft’s eyes on him, but he shut his own and focused. Mycroft wouldn’t have ever gotten involved with someone in the first place, but that wasn’t an option, now. Deleting John wasn’t an option—Mycroft never deleted anything; he had an even better memory than Sherlock and was able to hold far more information without it muddling up the things he actually _needed_ to know—and he couldn’t delete anything _about_ John, either.

 

However, he could pretend. He could compartmentalize it—move on. Detach himself from it. Acknowledge and accept that it had happened, and then…move forward, as much as the both of them could. Sherlock had already thought about doing exactly that, but it seemed to now be, quite literally, a matter of life and death.

 

John would still know everything about him. Sherlock hated that fact, but there didn’t seem to actually be anything that he could do about it. It was done. It was over. It was in the past. John had done something awful to him, but Sherlock just needed to—accept it.

 

Get over it.

 

When Sherlock opened his eyes, Mycroft was gone. He was still small, not even reaching the edge of the lab counter, but just being alone—or, at least, without Mycroft—was a relief. The elder man could no longer mock him, for one, but it also meant that Sherlock had been correct about what Mycroft would do. Not let it faze him. Accept things for what they were. Get over himself and what had happened. Move on.

 

 **“We need to get out of here,”** he told John, just as the walls in the lab began shaking so violently that cabinets fell over, glass beakers and vials spilling out of them before shattering as they came into contact with the tiled floor. **“But I don’t know how. I was—I was trying before, but I kept getting lost, and nothing is where it’s supposed to be and I just—I don’t _know_!”**

_You’re all right. There’s nothing be ashamed of. John likes you. It’s okay to tell him you don’t know what to do. You’ve done your best and now you need help. Remember what he said? It’s fine. It’s **all** fine._

Sherlock dashed over to where John was and took the man’s rough hand in his own smaller, softer one and tugged on it. He stared up at John, not even thinking about how mortified he would feel later on, if he lived through this, about appearing as a young and frightened boy in front of his only friend in the world.

 

**“Come on, John. You said I have to wake up. You said I have to let you help me. I am letting you now.”**

Chaos and mayhem aside, John felt his own mind start to withdraw out of fear that he'd failed. He felt the floor quake beneath him as glassware began shuffling and teetering towards the edge of their shelves, and he grimaced upon hearing the subsequent shatter that followed their plunging descent. The world around them, Sherlock's mind, was starting to fray and fall apart at the seams; the screams and howls of madness around them growing stronger with each passing second. His mind was going and with that, his body was doomed to follow  _if_  he refused (or could not) ascend to the conscious state in due course.   


And naturally, time was of the essence.  


But amidst all the madness, John felt the need to simply  _tune_  out. His awareness of Mycroft throwing down his usual overbearing and dictator-like spiel was minimal at best; he was too invested in the possibility that  _all_  of this might have been one sodding, heap of a failure. Succeeding in bring Sherlock back was  _only_  possible if John had Sherlock's full cooperation, and given the backlash of opposition he'd been met with since this whole 'operation' all began, he wasn't holding out too much hope. And it was a terrible feeling, to be honest, to know that a failure in his mission would lead to nothing but misery and regret; Stevran would be executed and his body autopsied for science, John would be covertly arrested and thus never see the sun again, and Sherlock-  


Sherlock would die.  


The two most loved individuals in John's life, and they would succumb to an unfair fate because John was either neglectful or careless; if he'd only flown through an area of space that he'd been confident with, his whole family would be alive and well, and if he'd only grown a backbone so to muster a shred of courage in the honest department, perhaps both he and Sherlock would be in a far better place.  


So many 'ifs', and not enough answers.  


But plenty of consequences to be dealt, so he should fail.  


He considered the idea of simply removing himself; disconnecting himself, so to turn tail and accept defeat. And in a sense, the process of disconnecting was already starting to occur by default; his sense of hopelessness not quite helping his cause. How could he help a man who didn't want it? How could he convince Sherlock of his loyalty otherwise, especially when he'd proved time and time again in recent times that he was exactly a contradiction to such a fact? How could  _he_ , who was not even a 'man' by the literal sense, ever expect to bring back Sherlock over to the light, especially when he'd already been consumed by so much darkness?  


Sherlock was lost, John decided; broken, and his mind was crumbling to the point where it would soon no longer be salvageable. Perhaps it would be better to leave and to accept fate. Perhaps -

 

 ** _Come on, John.  
_**  
  
Hands, small and soft were suddenly intertwining their fingers around John's own, and  _somebody_  was talking to him;  _beckoning_  him, and pleading for his attention. The voice was weak, but soft and forgiving; a child, it seemed. Disconnecting and fading out was starting to seem like a coward's choice; and that tiny little voice started to become louder, and louder, and  **louder**.

 

 ** _You said I have to wake up._** __  
  


"I did, didn't I?" Attention starting to focus, his eyes blinking open amidst stinging tears. As vision began to clear, he was met with the sight of a distressed child. John's first thought was that he'd  _seen_  this child before - the boy who'd been chasing his dog down the hallway. John recalled that he'd sounded incredibly articulate for his age, and that he'd held a strong sense of familiarity to someone, but he couldn't quite place his finger on  _who_  that person was.  


But now, it made sense.   
  
  
Oh, how it just  **snapped**  into place.  


That little boy, the one crying for his Redbeard, had been Sherlock. And with the seams of Sherlock's mind starting to fray, all perceptions and representations of things, people and objects and even Sherlock  _himself_  were twisting and contorting as rooms began to fade and walls began to fall. They had little time, if any, to leave. The hourglass was almost full; time was wearing incredibly thin.

 

 ** _You said I have to let you help me._** __  
  


"Oh, I did. I did." Oh, the irony. If only Sherlock knew  _just_  how ironic this had all become; John had come here to save Sherlock, but now, in this  **very**  moment, Sherlock was reeling John closer to him and strengthening that connection. Even as a little, rosy-cheeked child, Sherlock was aiding in  _so_  many ways that he likely wasn't even aware of; and John suddenly felt an overwhelming sensation of relief. This was good. This was...   


Yes, this was a bit 'good', actually.  
  
  
_I am letting you help me **now**._  


Help. That's what John was here for. He was here to help Sherlock; to save his life and correct all the wrongs (well, as many as he could muster). The boy - Sherlock - seemed adamant that John was confident in his plan, and was looking to John as a guiding light. And it was certainly one  _hell_  of a turnaround; going from the stubborn, adult-Sherlock always on the offensive, to such a meek little child that had once always been under the scrutinizing gaze of his elder brother Holmes. But fortunately for John, young or not, Sherlock had suddenly decided that this was something he simply  _couldn't_  fix on his own. The need and natural instinct for self-preservation was now far outweighing John's prior transgressions and because of this, the detective had slipped into a far more compliant state.  


**"And you say _I'm_  short."**  


He reciprocated Sherlock's actions; his hands offering up a friendly squeeze around the tiny hands that had initially gripped his own. In retrospect, throwing a comical jibe at Sherlock's expense probably wasn't appropriate, especially given the circumstances, but he didn't feel it to be harmful. If anything, it was a breath of fresh air to know that he had Sherlock's cooperation, and his confidence in John's ability to save them.  


**"Right. Yes, _help_." ** He refused to let go; to slip away from Sherlock would be like losing his anchor. And in such a fragile, cracking world, it was what John needed.  


It was what  _both_  of them needed.  


**"Just keep a hold of me, alright? Keep your hands as they are now, and don't let go. Never let me go.** " He spoke soothingly; and not simply due to the fact that Sherlock had been 'de-aged' before his eyes. He felt for the man, he  _truly_  did. And he could honestly empathize, and understand the source of his fear and his misery. Sherlock felt dumb; he felt  _stupid_ , and weak. He'd had the wool pulled over his eyes for years and John had let him remain within the confines of his ignorance, and for Sherlock, it was a direct blow to the gut. It was an insult on what he prided himself the most; his intelligence, his methodology of thinking - his  _mind_.  


**"And we're running out of time, so before we begin - I'll just say this now.** " He squeezed tighter, but not to the point where it would cause discomfort.   
  
  
**"You are not, nor have you ever been 'stupid', Sherlock Holmes**."   
  
  
He gazed sympathetically into the beautiful blend of mismatched blue and green hues (courtesy of heterochromia), and tilted the corners of his mouth into a weakened smile.  **"You're not 'stupid' because you didn't see through my lies. You're far from stupid, actually. You chose to see the** _good_  in me. Understand? Your loyalty to our friendship didn't 'dumb' you down, it made  _you_  a better person. It made  _you_ a better friend."  
  


**"I've seen you evolve in the years I've known you - the years we've known each _other_." **  
  
  
The world rattled around them, but John pressed on.  **"You think that feeling and empathizing makes you weak, or screws with your deductive process. And hell, perhaps it does.** " He grimaced as the relentless sound of beakers shattering one by one filled the room; a sign that time was running thin.  **"I suppose my point** _is_ ,  _Sherlock_ , is that you're  _better_  when you're more...  _Human_. You're certainly not 'dumb', and you're far from ignorant."  
  


_Time, John. You're running out of time._

****  
  
"But getting to the point, you've allowed me - no, you have  _granted_  me the privilege of knowing what it feels like to be human."  
  


He paused, if just for a moment.  


**"And not only that, but you reminded me what it feels like to have a home - to have a family again."**  
  


Saying what he needed to get off his chest, it was time to act. Fine, distinct features on the walls such as shelving and light fixtures had faded away and melted into a grey slab, one for each wall, floor and ceiling that surrounded them. He could practically sense the room get smaller and shrink, but he never  _dared_  trail his attention away from the little boy who represented  _so_  much more than just a child. He wasn't even sure if Sherlock would remember these heartfelt words that he'd bestowed on the detective (he wasn't holding out too much hope), but they had to be said. No more lies, no more honesty and one  _hell_  of an open heart.  


His new 'human' policy, and he'd vowed to live by it (with Sherlock, at least).  


**"Now. I believe it's time for you to** _wake up_."  
  


The next part was easy, for cooperation was key. Given that Sherlock had essentially thrown him the reins, any and all mental blocks had since been removed. John was free to do as he pleased, and so he would.

And so, the world around them began to fade as he mentally willed himself out to a conscious state of mind; and with John, he willfully dragged Sherlock out to the waking world with an ease akin to quoting the alphabet.

 

* * *

 

"Just, hold him steady!"

"He's  _heavier_  than he looks!"

"Steady heart rate, but blood pressure is low. Let's get this one back to the bed-"

"-Heavens sakes, sedate him!"

 

* * *

 

 

Yes, be it known to all that John could  _feel_  one  **hell**  of a headache that clenched the space between his eyes. Actually, it was a migraine. A nasty, bloody migraine that dared raise it's head as light slipped through John's fluttering eyelids.

Speaking of which, the pain he felt gave him enough insight to make an assumption that he was  _awake_. Awake in the physical sense, of course; which meant one of two things. 

Either Sherlock followed him, or he didn't.

But fears aside, John's heart sunk upon feeling a famliar tightness around both wrists and ankles. He figured it was just another precautionary measure that Mycroft had encouraged the doctors to enforce, but regardless - it was unpleasant. He was yet again a prisoner (of 'war'), and all he had from his little 'mind trip' was a nasty migraine, and a lack of answers.

"-Sod."

As he went to tilt up his head to get a better look and to check for company, he was met with the nasty revelation that there had been an extra restraint included. This time, around his neck.

"Seriously?" His head was pounding, he was  _restrained_  and now he couldn't even have the luxury of being able to  _look_  around the room. Was this because he had failed?  _Had_  he failed? Had Sherlock gone into cardiac arrest or perhaps suffered from an aneurysm?

_Answers. I **need**  answers!_

"Hello?" He croaked, his voice hoarse; almost raw. "Is he alright?" Sherlock Holmes. Is  **he**  alright?"

No response.

" **Hey**!" He snapped, and jigged the restraints. "That man in the other room? Is he  **alive**?"

 **"MYCROFT**!" John was pushing it, but he was desperate. He'd roar if he had to, and he'd gladly risk being pumped full of sedatives if that meant getting a status on Sherlock's condition. " **Just _TELL_  me!**"

"Just, tell me." His voice dropped an octave or two, and he went quiet. " _Please_. Just... I  **need**  to know."

Sherlock’s ears were ringing.

 

It was a singular, steady shriek, deep in his eardrum, gnawing away at his very being.

 

And then it stopped. Instead of the drawn-out noise, there was a steady, rhythmic beeping. It only took him a few seconds to recognise it for what it was: an EKG heart monitor. In a hospital.

 

That explained why the sheets—they were most definitely sheets; he realised that now—were so scratchy over his body. Thin and itchy, but when he tried to move, he found that he barely could. His body was so heavy and he felt so bloody _tired_.

 

“Rest.”

 

That voice. It was familiar—very much so. Not a doctor, then, or a nurse, or any other medical professional…but _who_ …

 

He couldn’t place the name. Sherlock knew he had heard it before, and he felt that it was someone close to him, not just proximally but emotionally (not that he wanted to actually admit that), but he just couldn’t remember _who_.

 

Despite the man telling him to rest, Sherlock opened his eyes, slowly. The room he was in was dim, the only source of light coming from the open door, where it was pouring in from the corridor. The walls were white and drab and it smelled of alcohol and some sort of other soap or cleaning product.

 

Definitely a hospital, then.

 

“Did you not hear me? I said _rest_.”

 

Sherlock squinted as he turned his head. The man standing beside his bed had his phone out in his hand. Judging by the speed at which his thumb was flitting over the screen, he was sending an email or a text. His gaze lifted from it and met Sherlock’s own, and it was in that moment that the name hit him like a locomotive.

 

 

If looking at his brother hadn’t brought his name back to mind, Mycroft’s bossiness would have. The man was always telling him what to do, how to behave, how he should or should not act, what cases to take, how to live, when and what to eat, what he needed to do with his life…

 

Well. Most of that had been from childhood, hadn’t it? His teen years, his twenties, especially. Mycroft had always believed that he knew what was best for him, and frustratingly, he had very nearly always been correct.

 

_‘Don’t take drugs, Sherlock. You’ll regret it.’_

_‘I did tell you to stop telling everyone everything you know.’_

_‘Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.’_

Yes, Mycroft had been right about all of those things. Sherlock wouldn’t say it to his brother’s face, but he would admit it to himself.

 

“I could be wrong,” the younger Holmes said, pushing on the bed in an attempt to sit up (Mycroft looked like he wanted to push right back on him to keep him down, but his disdain for human contact, no doubt, was what kept him from doing so), “but I don’t believe you get to make that decision for me. I feel that I have been lying here, in this bed, for days. How long has it been?”

 

Mycroft was obviously irritated that Sherlock wasn’t doing what he’d told him to. Not surprised, certainly, but irritated. He sighed and shifted his umbrella from one hand to the other, leaning on it.

 

“Nearly two days. You have spent the entirety of it unconscious. For most of it, you were in a comatose state.”

 

A coma. Christ.

 

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock brought his hand up and scrubbed it over his face. His skin was greasy, especially on his brow and around his nose. He needed a shower. He needed to be put in clothes that weren’t this crisp, papery hospital gown.

 

“John brought me here, then.”

 

Mycroft huffed a mirthless laugh and shook his head. “Doctor Watson? Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. _I_ brought you here. Although, I suppose you could say that he is the indirect reason why you are here. Do you remember what happened?”

 

Sherlock didn’t respond right away. He had so many thoughts going through his mind, albeit sluggishly, that he didn’t know which to place when. His head was aching; that had to have something to do with what had happened. Had they got into a fight, of sorts? Sherlock had always thought John would be a violent man if pushed far enough. Sherlock could be one, too.

 

“John put me here,” Sherlock answered after a few beats of silence had passed, the only sound his own breathing and the heartrate monitor beside the bed. “However, I do not remember…”

 

He brought his hand up to his head and started pressing on it, the crown, the top, around his temples. There was a single tender spot, so it may very well have been where he had been hit. What could they have possibly argued about to make John _that_ angry? Surely he wouldn’t have lashed out.

 

No, no. That wasn’t it. But then _what_?

 

_Think, Sherlock. Think._

 

Alien…John was an alien, yes…they were going to work a case at the zoo, but then they had met with Steven…they had spoken to him…he hadn’t taken to it well…

 

It was fuzzy, but it was there. The worst part of it, for Sherlock, was how long it was taking him to recall everything. His mind palace was a goddamn _mess_. Some of the rooms had been reduced to nothing but rubble, leaving Sherlock standing in a pile of dirt and gravel, a cloud of dust still rising up from it. His memories weren’t _gone_ , but they were just—loose. He would need to corral them again.

 

That could take _ages_.

 

“He did something to me,” Sherlock finally concluded. “I do not know what. He pressed his head against mine…I remember feeling—” The detective paused. No, he wasn’t going to tell his brother _that_. Mycroft didn’t need to know what he had felt. Talking about emotions with his elder brother was not something Sherlock did, ever. “I remember _thinking—”_

_Stop it! He doesn’t even know what John **is**!_

Bloody hell, that’s right. Mycroft didn’t know John was an alien. John had probably called an ambulance—no, wait. Mycroft said _he_ had brought him. Why would John call Mycroft instead of calling an ambulance?

 

Jesus, he couldn’t think. Everything was sloppy and fuzzy; he couldn’t seem to even put two and two together. As soon as he remembered something, he immediately turned around and remembered it happening differently. His head was pounding, right behind his eyes, especially, and Mycroft was looming over him, just waiting for him to say something that was _wrong_ so he could mock him.

 

Obviously that was why he was here.

 

“You are straining yourself,” Mycroft pointed out with a sneer. “Do stop it. I know about your flatmate, Sherlock. I know what he is. I know what his son is. I took it upon myself to deal with them both.”

 

Deal with them?

 

Sherlock swallowed thickly. He lifted his head to meet Mycroft’s gaze, his own brow furrowed.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Mycroft didn’t hesitate before answering. “I mean that I dealt with them. I had the boy taken away to be used as collateral. Doctor Watson’s role was much more pivotal. He is the one that pulled you out of the coma.” Mycroft’s sneer deepened into a scowl and he scoffed. “Not that it is some grand and noble achievement. He is the one who put you into it in the first place.”

 

“Don’t hurt them.”

 

That was the only thing Sherlock could say. It was a plea, one that he truly hoped Mycroft would abide by. Regardless of what John had done, he had to have had a reason for doing it, didn’t he? More and more was coming back to him; he had gone up to John’s room to speak to him and the next thing he knew, he was here.

 

With a mind palace that was half-destroyed. That meant _something_ , didn’t it? Sherlock just didn’t know what.

 

He remembered running. He remembered feeling frightened, trapped. He remembered…he had felt John’s memories, hadn’t he? He had seen them, but he had also _experienced_ them. The death of John’s wife and daughter, their ship crashing. Various milestones in his life—Sherlock had seen them as if he were sitting right beside the alien for each and every one.

 

And John had seen his own. That was why there was such a strong sense of exposure remaining in his gut. John _knew_ things about him, not of Sherlock’s own choosing but because of whatever had happened in his mind.

 

That explained why he felt so _stupid_.

 

**_"You are not, nor have you ever been 'stupid', Sherlock Holmes_ ** _."_

“Why are you still here? You aren’t _concerned_ , surely.”

 

Mycroft returned into his pocket and shook his head. “I’m not. I’m leaving, now.”

 

“And John is, where?”

 

Mycroft knew better than to lie to Sherlock. It wasn’t always enough to stop him from doing so, but there seemed to be little point in it now.

 

“Across the hall.”

 

“And Stevran?”

 

“Still in my possession. That is where he is going to continue to be until I am convinced his father is not a threat.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “You cannot be serious. John is not a threat, Mycroft. For God’s sake.”

 

“Isn’t he?” Mycroft looked genuinely confused, although Sherlock knew it was an act. “I find it odd that you would say that, seeing as how he put you in a coma. He seems like a threat to me.”

 

Mycroft glanced over Sherlock’s body, as if inspecting him once more to make sure he was on the mend, and then he nodded.

 

“Good evening.”

 

That was how the Holmes brothers did things. They were curt about it. They avoided feelings because they were nonsensical and inconvenient things that prevented them from being the perfect working machines they so strongly desired to be. Yes, Sherlock could remember all of that, very well.

Mycroft left, and as soon as he did, Sherlock was pushing himself up. He could actually _hear_ John calling out. It wasn’t in his head; it was bloody real. Sherlock had to move slowly. He felt as if he was learning how to walk all over again. One foot in front of the other, balancing on them both, one step at a time.

 

It took him twice the amount of time it should have to get to John’s room. The alien was strapped down to the bed, unable to move even his head. Sherlock didn’t know how he felt about that. Relieved? Sympathetic? Justified?

 

Whatever it was, it didn’t stop him from opening the sliding door and stepping inside.

 

“There is no use calling for my brother,” he told the other man. He hobbled over to the chair in the corner of the room and dropped down into it. His legs felt wobbly, like Jell-O; it was a wonder he had even managed to remain on his feet for as long as he had.

 

“He is gone. And—and before you ask, yes. He still has your son. I imagine he will do for some time.”

 

Another throbbing pang shot right through Sherlock’s head, as if it were literally going through one ear and out the other, and he brought his hand up to rub his brow as he grunted, softly.

 

“I am struggling to piece everything together. I know you did something to me, hence why I ended up here. It must have affected you as well, or else you would be in a prison cell, not in hospital.”

 

And that was about all he knew.

 

“I remember hearing you, while I was comatose. At least, I think it was then. I cannot be certain. And I cannot explain _why_ , but it feels like you were…” Trailing off, Sherlock reached up and tapped his finger against his temple. “The real you. It feels like the real you was in there, in my mind. It is a mess, my mind, but I can see it, as plain as I could see if you had left muddy footprints. How is that possible?”

 

It felt like an age as he lay his head flat (not as though he had a choice), and stared up blankly at the ceiling whilst mulling over his countless fears and worries for the present, and the future. Given that he had such little grasp about his present situation, he began taking comfort in taking focus on the things that he knew. For instance, he  _knew_  that he'd been removed from Sherlock's room; but that could be consequential from either failure or success. Sherlock had either lived, or he'd died, and moving John to another room was merely ensuring that he stayed put. 

 _However_ , it was either the headache or his ignorance, but John had been overlooking an incredibly important detail that  _gave_  him the answer he was after.

Sherlock  **was**  alive. 

The bond. Oh, how could he have been so  _stupid_? What once had started as nothing but an inkling had eventually grown into something strong and cemented. But now, it was like a tangible lifeline that he could reach out and touch. Almost malleable, he thought; but it seemed that his little parlor trick had done a tad more than just throw Sherlock into a coma and kick around the walls within his mind.

Oh, it felt strong. He was alive, certainly. His heart was pumping in a beautiful, rhythmic cycle of systole and diastole; his mind was returning to a clarity and there was an air of relief mixed in with a touch of resentment for Mycroft and-

John scrunched up his face; the man understandably perplexed at the sudden revelation that he was feeling - or  _empathizing_  with Sherlock on a whole new level.Empathy often came in hand with a strong connection with a significant other (usually attributed to romantic associations, as opposed to familial or platonic relationships), but this was a whole different kettle of fish. Rooms apart, but hell; he could feel the connection.

And not just that, but his mind buzzed with a smorgasbord of memories that ran through like a slideshow, ranging from the time Sherlock busted his knee whilst falling off a bike, to the time he and Mycroft had a minor altercation as they argued who carried the higher IQ. The fact that John had gained these memories might have been unsettling for Sherlock, but John didn't quite see it as such a burden. On the contrary, he felt as though he'd gotten to know Sherlock in a way that he'd never normally be granted the opportunity to do otherwise.

Plus, the memory of a young Sherlock clad in a pirate costume whilst chasing around Redbeard was enough to being a grin to John's face, no matter how upset or fearful he might be.

_Never took him for the type who went through a cherub-stage as a sprog._

Best not use that as fodder in a future argument with Sherlock, John decided. Best not to use anything, actually. John valued the friendship and bond that they had, and given the mistakes the alien had made along the way (yes, there were  _plenty_ ), he couldn't afford to drive Sherlock further and further away.

Oh, yes. They had a long, uphill battle ahead of them; not to mention, the son that John had yearned to find for the past decade was now under the unforgiving thumb of Mycroft Holmes. And John didn't need to be a mind reader to determine that the boy was likely  _terrified_  beyond all reasonable doubt; holed up in a flat with armed guards keeping him captive, and John was likely the blame. After all, it hadn't even been a solid twenty four hours since meeting his biological father, and suddenly, Stevran was unfairly plucked from freedom and taken into custody; courtesy of the British Government.

Thinking about his son; quite frankly, it was depressing.

How on Earth was John going to convince Mycroft to release him? Was it simply an assurance that John would stick to 'good' behavior for the rest of his life? Hadn't all the times he'd assisted in solving cases (and saving Sherlock's life) been enough? Was Mycroft honestly willing to overlook  _all_  the good in John, just so he could prove a point and flaunt his power and back John into a corner?

No. John wouldn't let this stand.

He  **couldn't**.

Stevran would be free, one way or another. He'd trade his own freedom for the boy's if he had to, but he wouldn't dare let his son suffer due to John's failings as a single parent.

_I'll come for you, I promise._

Drawing himself out of his own thoughts, his attention shifted as he picked up on a muffled exchange of words behind a closed door, but it was close. Oh, how he yearned to just pick his head up and peer over to see if he could get a gander at the mild commotion happening just out in the other room, but all he could do was cough and splutter as the bindings pressed tightly against his trachea each time he tried in vain. Two people were chatting, and he was  _fairly_  confident that one of those voices belonged to the very man that he wanted to strangle.

The conversation however, seemed incredibly short lived as footsteps clacked with an ominous echo that grew fainter and fainter as they ventured down the hall. Given the unsteadiness of the gait (there was a short pause between each step, and a faint 'thud' in between), it was a telltale sign that Mycroft had been utilizing his umbrella as a walking aid.

Yep. Definitely Mycroft.

Silence followed suit (he was starting to detest the prolonged silence that tended to greet him in this place), and his heart began to sink in a familiar sense of defeat.

_For Christ's sake-_

That is, until the door to his room burst open and he heard the faint shuffling of feet passing slowly atop the polished linoleum. 

_No shoes. Unsanitary, and not up to code in a Private hospital. Actually, **any**  hospital for that matter._

Robbed of his ability to crane up his head and visually greet his new guest, he clenched up his hands into fists and rolled his ankles from side to side. It felt incredibly demeaning and utterly humiliating to be held down like a high-risk psychiatric patient for his own safety, or a rabid animal being held so to protect others from danger. It was vilifying; and given that he had a proud history of serving both Queen and Country in a planet that he laid no claim to, it was essentially an insult when  _this_  was how he was being treated with his military service in mind.

He'd even taken a bullet for this land.

But in hindsight, he'd never regret it. He'd saved lives, he'd helped others. As ridiculous as the ongoing campaign in Afghanistan truly was, he'd done others a service with the medical and military knowledge and training that he'd been granted with from previous years on his  _own_  planet.

And, those were the years when he'd coped and adapted as he finally started to cope and move on from his loss. 

The years where he'd properly learned the ways of being human, as opposed to feeling like 'the outsider'.

_There is no use calling for my brother._

That smooth, distinct baritone commanded John's attention and he was fortunate in the sense that he could tilt his head to the side and get a proper view as he witnessed a haggard, tired looking Sherlock who'd slipped down into the chair over by the corner. It hurt, mind you, to twist his neck in the way that he was doing now, but he couldn't care less. Sherlock was here, in the flesh.

His brief bout of relief was quickly stunted by the conformation of Stevran's containment, but he declined to make a comment (for  _now_ , at least). They'd get to the topic of his son shortly, but right now, it was Sherlock who beckoned his attention.

And so, he should have it.

He let Sherlock waffle on; speak about how he felt, his concerns and uncertainties about  _what_  John had done to his mind. He didn't seem as angry as John had feared (he'd copped most of that within the walls of the Mind Palace), but he seemed as though he wasn't at ease with what he'd experienced. And not only that, but it was evident that he shared the throbbing headache that ran rampant in John's own mind.

That would likely linger for a few days. 

A week, possibly.

_I remember hearing you._

_It feels like the real you was in there, in my mind._

_How is that possible?_

Oh, good question. Good question  _indeed_?

"Sherlock, I-" He unclenched his fingers and splayed his fingers out with open palms. Sherlock looked like death, John was being held down like an animal and both of them were confined to a hospital.

But at  _least_ , the tension between them was  _nowhere_  near as bad as it had been before.

"I remember it well." He paused, ensuring that he took the time to carefully select his words. Delicacy right now was key, and he'd vowed to remain open an honest with Sherlock. Actually, he'd  _promised_. And never,  _ever_  again would he dare to insult Sherlock's dignity with such a show of disrespect. 

"I remember most of it, actually. All of it. Hm." A twinge in his neck and the redness forming beneath the restraints gave John enough cause to turn his head back until the poster aspect of his skull was nestled once more against the mediocre pillow, and his gaze was fixed permanently to the ceiling. "I, uh, well - the conversation that we had within your mind, it happened. I don't know how  _much_  of it you can remember, but it was real. I was 'there', in a sense."

"Not in the physical sense, mind you." He wanted to wave his hands defensively and to reiterate the fact that he'd already acknowledged his essential 'rape' of Sherlock's mind, but he figured that it should have gone without saying.   
  
"I was there, and we spoke. I saw... I listened to you, to what you had to say. Everything you said, everything that I did - I know. I  _know_. I should never have done it. I should  **never**  have overstepped my boundaries, and you almost paid the ultimate price for my negligence."

He felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he took a moment to recollect his thoughts, but the pain started dragging out through his voice. On the positive, at least he no longer shared eye contact with the younger Holmes.

But in moments like these, he was starting to mentally curse the burden of empathizing heavily with the detective.

"You're alive, though. I'm grateful. I'm really, really grateful."   
  
There was a slight crack in his voice as his mouth tilted to that of a broken smile. Genuinely, he  _was_  relieved. But deep down, he knew it wasn't over. And the way of life as he once knew, he could practically kiss it goodbye. No more Sherlock, no more cases and no more pastries cooked fresh by Mrs. Hudson on a Saturday morning. He'd never relish in the joys of crappy telly, nor would he ever have the chance to brew a decent cup of tea when he felt the desire to do so. He'd never get the chance to sort out this mess with Sherlock and rebuild, or to spend the rest of his days in Baker Street with all his creature comforts. But aside from all his 'human' concerns, what worried him most was that he'd never get a chance to know and bond with his son.

"And given that I abused the privilege of your company and put you in harm’s way, it's only natural that you will want your distance. Your space." He frowned. "Granted, if I were in your shoes I'd do the same. There's nothing I can do or say to explain myself. I won't dare add insult to injury by saying that I did this out of 'love'. I was scared. I was terrified, and I acted inappropriately.  _I_ took a knife to our friendship."

_Enough with the sap story; he's not going to care._

_Wrap it up._

"I'm going to make this easier, Sherlock. Easier on everyone." His eyes fluttered shut; the halogens worsening his migraine whilst he'd been staring up at the ceiling. "It's clear that Mycroft has deemed me to be a threat, and given my actions, I'll gladly agree." He gave a solemn sigh. "And taking into consideration the imprisonment and death threat made towards Stevran, I suppose there's only one thing that I  _can_  do."

This time, despite all discomfort, he opened his eyes and turned his head slightly over so that he could reconnect visually with the seated detective.

"My life, for Stevran's."   
  
He'd nod if he could, but his voice sounded defiant. "Mycroft thinks I'm a threat? And so be it, I suppose I am. But that boy has done  _nothing_  but work towards making a life for himself, and it's  **my**  fault that he's in danger. It's my fault that  **you**  were hurt; see the pattern? I'm the problem. I've always  _been_  the problem."

"Talk to him, would you? Tell him I'll willingly cooperate, provided he let my son  _go_. He can have me; he can take my corpse." He pleaded. "You'll be better off, Mycroft will have me in custody and Stevran will be free."

_But I'll be without you._

"It's better for everyone involved."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I haven't heard from my writing partner in nearly two weeks. She's very busy, but I'm not sure if she'll be able to continue the story or not. I've got quite a bit more to post, still, but I might have to leave it hanging after, if she's unable to continue.

Sherlock was struggling to collect his own thoughts even as John spoke. So he was right—John _had_ been there. He had been there, in his mind, walking around the rooms of his mind palace, seeing his memories, his emotions…everything that Sherlock fought so hard to keep hidden—to keep _secret_ —John knew about.

 

It made the detective feel sick to his stomach. He tried to remind himself that, if he had to have his thoughts and feelings witnessed by _anyone_ , he would have wanted it to be John, but that didn’t help. Not really. It just made Sherlock think about how this _one_ thing that he had tried so hard to maintain his entire life—his dignity—had been stripped away from him.

 

**_“Your loyalty to our friendship didn't 'dumb' you down; it made you a better person. It made you a better friend."_ **

**_"I suppose my point is, Sherlock, is that you're better when you're more... Human. You're certainly not 'dumb', and you're far from ignorant."_ **

****

John had told him that. Sherlock couldn’t place when, or why, but he knew the words were John’s. He could actually _hear_ John saying them. Was he right? Did it really not ‘dumb him down’? Sherlock found that hard to believe, as he felt _quite_ dumb, sitting in his chair, staring at the alien who was strapped down onto the bed. He felt dumb for ever having trusted John in the first place. He felt dumb for not turning and running from him when he first learned what he was.

 

But then, he was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes didn’t _run._

 

He didn’t often fall prey to not knowing what to say, either, but it seemed that he was exactly that right now. What could he say to this man who had both bettered his life and ruined it? What could he say to John after what had _happened_?

 

_“My life, for Stevran’s.”_

Without even thinking about it, Sherlock knew that Mycroft wouldn’t accept John’s proposal. It was a noble sacrifice to make, and Sherlock did admire John’s selflessness (it was about damn time he showed some—not that Sherlock ever did), but it wouldn’t be enough. Mycroft would simply keep them both, if that was what he desired. Sherlock assumed it was. After all, with John, Mycroft could learn about the alien society as a whole. With Stevran, he could learn about alien puberty.

 

No. Mycroft would certainly keep them both. He would lie and say that he had released Stevran, only to coerce John into coming in. That was just what Mycroft _did_.

 

“My brother will not accept your arrangement,” Sherlock finally spoke up. “He will simply take the both of you and then lie about doing so. He presents an honourable front, but he is a politician. You know how they are. Underhanded. Dishonest. Ruthless.”

 

Sherlock stood up on wobbly legs and walked over to the window. He leaned against the edge, staring out at the bleak, overcast sky. It matched his mood. That was a pedestrian thing to say, but true. He traced his fingers through his curls and grimaced; it felt greasy, messy.

 

“Mycroft has always had a difficult time thinking clearly when it comes to me,” the detective continued. “Do not misunderstand me; he still has a remarkable amount of objectivity compared to the common man. More so than myself, even.” With a long sigh, Sherlock took a few steps towards John’s bed. “If I had as much as he did, I would not be in here right now speaking to you. I would be long gone and telling myself that I was better off without you. Right now, I am trying to decide whether or not that is true.”

 

After hesitating only briefly, Sherlock closed the distance between himself and John’s bed. He reached down and untied the restraints around his wrists and ankles. Next were the ones on his legs, chest, and head. Some of them were far easier than others to remove, but he was determined to get John _up_ , rather than making him lie back like a criminal.

 

What he had done wasn’t _right_ , by any means, and Sherlock hadn’t forgiven him for it—but he could readily admit that all this was a bit excessive.

 

“There are still guards outside the door,” Sherlock told John, pulling the last of his restraints away. “I would suggest you remain put, lest you bring your and your son’s death upon yourself.”

 

Sherlock crossed his arms and stared down at John. He didn’t know what he wanted to say to the man. Everything, and yet nothing. He wanted to express his anger and disappointment and disgust again, but Sherlock held his tongue. He knew that he already sounded like a broken record. There was no need to further that thought in John’s mind, or in his own.

 

“I will speak with my brother.”

 

That was really all Sherlock could promise. He didn’t know if he would be able to change Mycroft’s mind. It was unlikely that he would be able to get Stevran out on his own—Mycroft would be expecting that, and as much as Sherlock hated to admit it, his brother _was_ the smarter one between the two of them—so appealing to his brother’s sensitivities (not that he actually had any) was their only chance.

 

Mycroft wouldn’t believe John was harmless. He had put Sherlock into a coma; that right there would be enough to keep Mycroft bitter against the doctor for the rest of their lives. Mycroft did not trust easily, just as John didn’t, and when that trust was broken, it was broken permanently.

 

“I do not have much of a defense, unfortunately. Even if you and I never see one another again, Mycroft will, no doubt, say that you are a danger to others and that you should be removed from society. He will have no qualms about doing the same to Stevran as well.”

 

Even as he spoke, Sherlock’s mind was reeling, trying to think of something— _anything_ —that he could say to Mycroft to convince him to let both John and Stevran go. If Sherlock were to let John loose himself, leave with him now, Mycroft may do something to Stevran simply out of spite. Sherlock didn’t want to take the risk, but he also didn’t want John to be _stuck_.

 

What other choice did they have, though? Nothing that either Sherlock nor John said in the alien’s defense would help him. It wouldn’t be until Mycroft changed his mind (which he may or may not even do) or until Sherlock thought of a way to outsmart him.

 

Either way, Stevran’s chances were not good.

 

Even though Sherlock didn’t know it, Stevran was being held, chained to a table by his wrists and ankles. Mycroft’s people continually asked him questions, going in and speaking to him in shifts, and nearly every answer that Stevran gave was ‘I don’t know’.

 

In his defense, he _didn’t_. He had only just found out about his real father being alive, and the idea that he was an alien was still trying to settle itself into his mind, if it ever even would.

 

After sighing again, Sherlock lowered himself down onto John’s bed. His shoulders hunched as he sat, his hand moving up to cradle his forehead. He didn’t want John to have to endure the loss of his son. He truly didn’t. It would be a horrid thing to put the man through (at least, as far as Sherlock’s understanding of father-son familial relationships went). Even after what John had done, intentionally or unintentionally, Sherlock still didn’t want to hurt him.

 

Maybe punch him a time or two, but not allow his son to be taken away.

 

“I don’t suppose you are going to tell me, now, that you have some sort of magical abilities? Transformation? Teleportation, transformation? Any of those ‘T’ skills that would allow you and your son to go somewhere safe? It _will_ take me time to think of a way to get him out, and we do not know if he has the time.”

 

 

Ah, to be free. In retrospect, the last thing he'd expected of his frazzled companion was to be unshackled from his bindings and be given a fleeting moment of 'freedom', but he was nothing if not grateful. But whilst this moment should have been an occasional to be thrilled about, Sherlock's ominous insight to the hopelessness of John's situation truthfully put a damper on the mood. Plus, there wasn't even a crying need to argue with Sherlock to try and vocalize a shred of defiance; Sherlock was  _right_. Politicians were indeed, underhanded, dishonest and ruthless.

And Mycroft,  _well._

He was the individual embodiment of 'politician'.

A moment or two on the bed allowed him a moment to reflect over the potential fate that he shared with his son, but those few extra seconds threw him no favors. He wasn't even sure how long it would be until the guards would come storming back in just to slap him back on the bed with overbearing brutality, but it was safe to assume that Mycroft had left some fairly  _specific_  guidelines if John were to step out of line, so to speak. He could only assume that attempting to leave would spark  _some_  attention, so he'd stick to best behavior for now.

_At least, until we have a solid plan._

"Ugh, never thought I'd be able to stretch my legs again." The little things in life that he'd never thought he'd miss; even just to feel the paper-thin bedsheets slide against his calves as he slid them further back and closer to his body, his knees audibly creaking as he pulled them rigidly up towards his chest as he fixed himself into an upright, seated position.   
  
For a short while, his attention was planted to the ghostly pallor that had started to wash through his skin tone from the knees down; the rest hidden beneath his generically standard gown. From the moment he'd awoken, the itchiness and sensitivity of his skin had been a once-quiet thought at the back of his mind that had since grown to a bellowing presence commanding the alien's focus.

"Uh, magical abilities?" Arms stretched forward, he began palpating and exploring the skin of his legs with his hands; his fingers softly palpating the skin and gently prodding against both fat and muscle to get an approximate scope as to the severity of his biological and physical reversion. He picked up on the edge of the mattress depress slightly as Sherlock took it upon himself to find a place to sit, but he found himself already picking gently at a distinct reddening patch on the medial aspect of his ankle.

_Red. Sore, almost scabbing over._

_Not good._

"Aside from being the species that I  _am_ , and bearing some significantly... Distinct anatomical features..." He went from palpating to lightly scratching his nail over the surface of the skin, taking note that it was far rougher than he'd originally thought. "I'm afraid that the only 't' I've got up my sleeve is a  _very_  mild degree of telepathy. Speaking of which, that seems to only work with you and to some degree, Stevran." He continued to dig at the red patch, finding that itchiness seemed to be relative to the duration of his need to relieve said itch. "And before you get all worked up;  _no_. I can't read your mind  _now_." He paused. "Nor can I read Stevran's. It's more of an... Empathetic connection. But since I made a cock-up of our friendship, it's... Well, a bit stronger."

_But hell, it's not like you can feel it._

A minute or two more, and he'd gathered enough information from his ankles alone to ascertain that he  _was_  changing; terrible news considering that it would increase his chances of growing a tolerance to his most recently developed serum. The red rash and the coarseness of the skin was indicative that his scales were coming through; but the paleness, patchiness and itchiness of his skin allover were the telltale signs of his humanity slowly starting to slip away bit by bit.

"He's scared, though." Finally, he swiveled to the side and let his feet hang over the edge. "Terrified, actually. Scared for his bloody life." Obviously disturbed by the thought, he kept his face turned clear of Sherlock's prying eyes, and slipped energetically to his feet.

Perhaps  _energetically_  wasn't the most recommended course of action; his legs were weak and stiff, and a mild shock from his 'leap of faith' sent him stumbling and throwing an arm out in the hope that he'd catch the edge of the bed to prevent a nasty face plant. But unlucky for him, for he caught something else. Someone's leg, to specify.

"Oh, bollocks." He only gripped the thigh for as long as he  _had_  to, knowing full well that Sherlock likely wouldn't have been comfortable about _anything_  to do with physical touch (especially with John for entirely obvious reasons). He staggered and teetered forward a touch, and waited until he was entirely steady on his feet before he let go. All he could do from there was to shuffle away in shame whilst ambling slowly and sorely over to the bathroom with his hand pressed to the small of his back. Walking was fine, but  _not_  when his body felt as though a truck had run through it multiple times over.

"Er, sorry for the..." He waved his hand around as he made an awkward beeline from the bed to the bathroom entrance, and from there he staggered uncomfortably to the sink. And  _thankfully_ , there was a mirror. Quaint; a little bit small for his liking, but it would do.

A brilliant feature of mirrors, John thought;  _they never lied_. Hypocrisy at its finest.

 _Eyes have gone three shades darker in tone; darkening of the iris, likely due to an increase in melanin._  He peered forward and over the sink, and turned his head from side to side; clearly unhappy with what he was seeing.  _Like my eyes, the hair is growing darker. Skin is also mismatched in complexion, likely preparing for the scales pushing through the layers. A day or so, and they will have broken through the epidermis. Fur will also crop up in the usual places._

 

He felt utterly ridiculous; almost to the point where it seemed like he was fawning over himself (he  _certainly_  wasn't), but he  _needed_  to see what was happening with his body. After all, there was no sense in winning back his and Stevran's freedom when they'd both look like something out a of a science fiction movie with fur, scales and all. But at the same time, he'd gone at left Sherlock moping on the side of his bed.

"You know-" He called turned from side to side, occasionally lifting the gown to get a better look at what lay beneath. "I suppose amongst all this sodding chaos, I've got to remember that—” Aside from the usual bits and pieces that were exactly where they should be (sans underwear, unfortunately), he was relieved to find that the majority of his lower and upper abdominal region was still relatively  _human_. 

For now, at least.

"I suppose, given all this  _shit_ , I can only really afford to look at the positives." He called out from the bathroom, but his eyes were transfixed on the tail that he struggled to grab as he hiked up his garment. Partially naked or not, he'd already been stripped and searched by strangers he'd never had the 'luxury' to meet. Sherlock seeing him partially starkers was the  _least_  of his worries right now. "I mean, aside from the fact that you just woke up from a coma that I caused, my abuse of our friendship, the fact that my son is possibly being tortured and the prospect that I may never taste freedom again-" 

 _Enough. Just get to the point_.

"I've got you - I mean, the mere fact that you're willing to  _speak_  to Mycroft on my behalf-" He released his tail from his grip, and let it fall loose and limp until it brushed by the back of his legs. "Which is far more than I deserve, I  _know_." He mentally tried to shake off the guilt; and it wasn't because he didn't feel guilty, quite the contrary. He just felt as though he'd slugged enough of that towards Sherlock since they'd spoken (both in mind  _and_  body), and he knew how deeply Sherlock despised unnecessary repetition.

"And I know myself and Mycroft have never quite seen eye to eye; bloody Ice man, he is." His fingers once more dipped beneath the hem and began working their way back up his abdomen; his fingers stopping as they reached the telltale line that ran across his chest. Grimacing as he touched it, he took note of just how tender it truly was.

"But surely he can't perceive me as a threat to the bloody  _Nation_  for Christ's sake!" He scoffed, and he scrunched down the fabric on his shoulder to peer at the skin. "I mean, I took a bullet for this country. A bullet in the  _shoulder_! Couldn't even see a medic about it; had to patch it up myself -  _myself_!" He was aware that he was likely rambling at this point, but amidst all the darkness and the depravity of Mycroft's unfair ruling over the fate of both John and his son, the fact that Sherlock would advocate for his freedom was paramount. Because, as John knew  _very well_ ; Sherlock was likely one of the  _only_  people in the world who had the ability to a) get an audience with Mycroft and b) have the ability and the power to command a shred of respect and attention from his brethren.

"And not to mention, I pay  _taxes_!" He splashed a bit of water on his face and let it dribble down the strands of his hair; taking pleasure in how soothing it felt as it trailed over his skin. "Taxes. Human  **sodding**  taxes. Did you know-" He pushed off the sink, and stumbled clumsily as he tripped and fell against the doorway; his hands fortunately hitting the doorway and stopping his fall. "That when I came here - I mean, after all..." He cleared his throat, not willing to go into the horrifying details of his crash.

_Actually, I suppose I don't need to tell him._

_I suppose he already knows everything about me, as I do him._

"As I was saying, when I  _came here_  - all I had was my universal translator-" He tapped the side of his head; making reference to his inner ear where the little device lay nestled and embedded into the vestibulocochlear nerve. "A fractured wrist, minor internal hemorrhaging and  _no_  money to my name. I don't think I'd ever heard of a 'tax' since the Dark Ages, to be honest."

"I mean, to  _me_ , this planet just used to be a little blip on the radar that I'd never give a second thought. An M-Class planet not fit for contact; too 'volatile'. Too 'war-torn'."

"Certainly not a place I'd ever call 'home'." He sighed softly. "Certainly not a place where I could see myself having a future, at least." He watched on with a soft gaze, his view never leaving Sherlock's sight. "I'm waffling, I  _know_. Tell me to shut-it if you'd prefer, I don't mind. Hell, I'm always used to you mouthing off some intelligent insult my way; I could bloody use a bit of normalcy between us now."

_Like that's **ever**  going to happen again._

"I suppose what I'm  _trying_  to say, Sherlock, is that this, right here;  **London**." He frowned. "Earth,  _this_  is my home. Living with you and having you as my friend? That's a bonus! And hell, my son is  _alive_. He's accomplished. He's going to be a doctor, and he's going to save  _lives_. And better still, he has a family who've given him all the chances he's deserved. He's a good kid, and he'll do a great deal of good in this world."

_That is, if he's given the chance._

"You might be in the process of deciding whether or not you can live without me, and that's fine." He nodded. "That's  _fine_ , because after all you've been through, you'd be insane if you chose to overlook it."

_Deep breath._

"But know this, Sherlock. You might be able to live without me, but I  **cannot**  - I just  _can't_  live without you. I  _can't_."

 

 

Despite Sherlock not being ‘in the know’ for all things science-fiction (science, yes, science fiction, no), he had been expecting John to say _something_ that would be useful to them. Some sort of special skill, some sort of secret ability— _something_.

 

Bloody hell, Sherlock would even have accepted mind control, despite how terrible it felt to know that his own had already been exposed to John in such a way. It was an awful feeling and Sherlock was struggling to shake the discomfort that came from knowing it had happened, even though he knew that dwelling on it wouldn’t do either of them any favours, now or in the long run.

 

At least they could use that to get Mycroft to release Stevran. Sherlock didn’t have the slightest idea of what would happen once he was freed, whether he would run back to John and demand to know about himself, run off to hide in a cave, in isolation, for the rest of his life, or maybe even kill himself (and numerous possibilities in between those extremes), but he _did_ know that he wanted to have the boy released.

 

Just for John.

 

Christ, when had he become so— _loyal_? When had he become the type of man who would be willing to do anything for another? Sherlock was selfish. He had always been so. He put himself first because he was the most important person in his own life—when and why had that changed?

 

Sherlock didn’t have to think about it because he already knew the answer. It had changed when he had met John. As soon as Sherlock had met John, he had liked him. He had warmed up to him. He hadn’t realised it immediately, but it hadn’t taken him long at all to do so. Of course, John shooting Jeff Hope to save his life (assuming that he had chosen the wrong pill, which he _hadn’t_ ) had only served to further the trust and loyalty that was already niggling itself into Sherlock’s heart and mind.

 

Yes, John _was_ raffling, and even more so, he was rambling. On and on, talking about absolutely nothing, in Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing in the bathroom; he was examining himself. He hadn’t taken his chemical solution in God only-knew how long, so John was slowly but surely reverting back to his true form.

 

Sherlock could still remember seeing it. It had been so strange, some sort of mix of fur and scales. If Sherlock hadn’t known it was John—he didn’t know how he knew, but he had; John could have already been working his slight telepathy on him, for all he knew—then the only thing he would have known was that it was male. And that it wasn’t human, of course, but that was a given.

_"But know this, Sherlock. You might be able to live without me, but I **cannot**  - I just _can't _live without you. I_ can't _."_

 

John probably already knew this, but Sherlock’s first thought wasn’t that he was touched. He didn’t think about how, for lack of a better word, ‘sweet’ it was that John was being so flattering. He was probably just being truthful, more than he was flattering, but in the past Sherlock had had no problems in assuming that the two went hand-in-hand when it came to John complimenting him. Now, there was only one thing going through Sherlock’s mind.

 

_Why me?_

 

Sherlock knew as well as anyone that he wasn’t like other humans. He was so, so much better than them. He craved dangerous people and situations, whereas most avoided them like the plague. He didn’t let other peoples’ opinions influence himself—or, at least, he hadn’t—and he didn’t care about living his life according to the standards that other people set for him. He didn’t take part in social niceties just because it was ‘the decent thing to do’. As he had told Mrs. Hudson the night of his and John’s very first case together, who cares about decent?

 

The work. That was all that mattered to him. That, and John.

 

And, while he was at it, he may as well say that a few—a very _select_ few—others also did. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Molly. Bloody hell, he even cared about James Moriarty in his own convoluted, sociopathic way.

 

“Come and sit down,” Sherlock instructed, patting John’s bed. Because he wasn’t sure that he wanted to be that close to the other man yet, though, Sherlock stood up. Of course he took the opportunity to eye John’s body, where the skin was becoming red and raw, dried, blotchy, and how his eyes had changed. What really caught his attention was John’s tail. It was _long_ , first of all, and also so bushy that it actually impressed Sherlock that John was able to hide it from him for so long, all by simply strapping it against his leg.

 

That had to have hurt, of course, but John had never let it stop him from doing anything. Sitting and watching James Bond films, running around London chasing criminals, making tea because Sherlock was too lazy to do it, going out and getting the shopping for them both (again, because Sherlock was too lazy to do it)…

 

“I do want this to work for us, John. I truly do. However, I do not know that it can.” Sherlock held up his hand to prevent John from speaking. “You said that you wanted me to be open, as I want you to be, so that is what this is. I am openly communicating with you. I do not know how the two of us can simply put everything that has happened these past few days—weeks, if you count the initial ‘first-contact’, as it were—behind us and pretend that it did not happen.”

 

Still, Sherlock kept his hand up. He didn’t want John to talk back to him. He just wanted to be able to get his own thoughts out in the open and hope— _pray_ —that John didn’t go and share them with anyone, or tease him later or hold his own openness against him. He didn’t really believe that John _would_ , but there was doubt. After such a breach of trust, such a thing seemed inevitable.

 

“I will go and see what I can do about your son. You remain here.”

 

Not that John had any other choice.

 

Because he was in no mood whatsoever to hear anything else that John may have to say—especially as he was babbling, speaking absolute nonsense that Sherlock had no desire to hear—he brushed past the other man and left his room. The guards stood aside for him but immediately resumed their position. Sherlock made his way, slowly, across the hall again. His clothes were in the cabinet, and he got dressed as quickly as he could before leaving (against the warning of the doctor who stopped him on the way) the ward and walking out of the hospital, dead-set on finding out where his brother was keeping John’s son.

 

* * *

 

 

Stevran didn’t know why he was here. He didn’t even know where he was, for that matter, but to him, the most important thing was _why_.

 

Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. It had to have been them. They were the only ones who knew about his tail and his—that _thing_ in his chest. Sam knew, too, but there was no way in hell that she would ever have told anyone about him. He couldn’t start to doubt her. He _wouldn’t_ start to doubt her. Sam had been loyal to him ever since they had first met. She _loved_ him.

 

His ‘father’—if that was even who Watson was—had abandoned him. Maybe it hadn’t been by choice, but it was what had happened regardless. And to think, they were living only twenty minutes away from each other the whole time, and he had never known that?

 

Granted, neither of them had.

 

Stevran looked around the room he was in; it was drab, with smooth, gray walls, not a single picture or mirror or anything hanging on them. The only furniture was two chairs and a desk between them. They—whoever ‘they’ even were—had cuffed him when he had first been taken, but now he was sitting in a chair, his wrists and ankles free from shackles. He had tried the door, obviously, but it was locked. He could hear voices on the other side, which he could only assume were guards.

 

A locked door _and_ guards? Someone really didn’t want him to leave.

 

It didn’t stop Stevran from slamming his hand against the door and shouting.

 

_“Where am I?!”_

_“Let me out!”_

_“You can’t keep me here; I haven’t_ done _anything!”_

His cries were always ignored. The following silence gave Stevran plenty of time to ponder his future, to wonder what was going to be done to him. Would he be killed? Operated on? Would they take his tail? Stick their hands into his chest? Torture him to get information about a home planet he knew nothing about? Assuming that what he had been told was even _true_ ; it was just as possible that Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson were working for whoever had taken him…wasn’t it? Couldn’t they have done it cosmetically? Had the tea at 221B been drugged? He _had_ drank tea, hadn’t he? _Had_ he?

 

Shit! He didn’t know _anything_ , and Stevran absolutely hated feeling so helpless, feeling so—frightened. It was god-awful, but there was quite literally _nothing_ he could do besides wait.

 

And wait he did. Stevran remained in that little room for…minutes? Hours? It could have been days or weeks, for all he knew. They had taken his mobile phone, his wallet. By the grace of God, he’d been kept in his clothes, at least.

 

When there was a knock at the door, Stevran stopped his pacing (he’d been doing it so much that he was out of breath and his legs were aching) and turned his head towards it.

 

A tall man with a long nose and an expensive suit—a thousand pounds at least, it had to be—entered the room, smiling politely. Stevran didn’t return it.

 

“Who the hell are you?” he snapped. “Why the hell am I _here_? Where am I? Why did you take me? What do you want from me?”

 

The man held up his hand. “Calm yourself, Steven. I am only here to speak with you. Would you like something to drink? Something to eat?”

 

Although Stevran was both hungry and thirsty, he shook his head. He wasn’t going to risk getting drugged. If something was going to be done to him, he at least wanted to make it difficult.

 

The man sat down in the chair behind the desk. He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together, and stared up at the boy. The man. He gestured towards the vacant chair.

 

“Sit down.”

 

“I don’t want to sit down.”

 

The man rolled his eyes. Unbeknownst to Stevran, it was because his father had said the very same thing to this man the first time _they_ had met.

 

_“The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.”_

_“I don’t wanna sit down.”_

“My name is Mycroft,” the man drawled, his eyes fixed right on Stevran. Of course Mycroft knew better than to introduce himself as ‘Mycroft Holmes’, or even ‘Mr. Holmes’ (which is what he normally would have done), because then Stevran would make the immediate association with Sherlock.

 

“Do you know why you are here, Steven? I’m sure you at least have some guesses.”

 

Cruel, callous, conniving; perhaps, all of the above. The man simply carried a certain air about him, almost as if he'd placed himself upon the highest pedestal that he could find. Even as he spoke, that  _tone_  sliced finely through the air and fell upon Stevran's ears with an incredible sense of distrust. As much of a stranger as he was, it didn't take a genius (or, a consulting detective) to ascertain that this 'Mycroft' was bad news; and all the polished shoes and the expensive suits in London wouldn't sugarcoat his clearly malicious intentions.

_Do you know why you are here, Steven?_

Don't answer that, he thought. Why give this man  _his_  time and  _his_  respect? Being snatched from the street and being subjected to psychological torture by means of isolation seemed to be striking off most of his basic human rights as a British citizen. And whilst he wasn't a lawyer, he figured he had enough of a grasp to determine that  _plenty_  of laws were being broken here.

_Although, it's possible these guys are the ones **making**  the laws._

If that were the case, his chances at freedom were slimming by the second. Given the manhandling and professionalism of any and all personnel involved in his kidnapping, he figured that this went beyond the means of apprehending a normal fugitive.  _I'm not **even**  a bloody fugitive, I've done nothing wrong! _But aside from whether or not he'd committed a crime (his citizenship could  _technically_  be questioned), he was a prisoner and this was clearly a 'big deal'. They knew about his anatomical abnormalities, which meant that they knew about John.

_My 'father'._

And he was in here  **because**  of John. He was here because John had slipped up, been careless and / or been followed. Something had happened which had sparked attention John's way, which had inevitably led towards all eyes on his biological offspring; Steven, Stevran - whatever his name  _should_  be.

Steven. That's what his parents called him; his loving sisters, even Sam. His very  _human_  girlfriend.

Oh, lord. They'd be worried sick. It wasn't unusual for Steven to take a few over-nighters at the university campus, but he'd clearly been gone longer than the norm and without a word of contact. Plus, hadn't he advised Sam to call the police if he hadn't called in by ten? Not to mention, he'd even name-dropped his 'captors' at the time; Sherlock and John. So if that were the case, why hadn't the police found him?

Although,  _perhaps_  that was simply yet another conclusion that his captors were potentially above the police.

And that, was very, very bad.

"Some guesses? I've got a few."

_My father. My 'dad'. The man who, possibly unbeknownst to him, is slowly and surely ruining my life._

He eyed the man with caution and sighed heavily upon resting his back against the wall; his hands splayed out against the drab grey and one leg crossed loosely over the other. He wasn't in much of a position to fight (bad idea; guards would intervene without a moments notice), and he certainly wasn't in a position to run. Four walls and a locked door kind of put a damper on that idea.

But there stood a question that had to be answered;  _should_  he cooperate? Would it  _honestly_ make a difference to splurge what he knew (or lack thereof) about the odd tidbits of information that 'dad' had slogged his way? Or would it just add more fuel to the fire; give this 'Mycroft' the upper hand despite leading to the same, painful conclusion regardless?

Christ, he  _hated_  feeling like a trapped rat. Hated every last bit of it.

"James - No,  _John_  Watson. What did he do? Throw me under a bus?" He sneered, and pushed off the wall with a touch of reluctance; the young adult clearly displeased with his entrapment. In doing so, he mentally grimaced at the telltale itch that his father had described; a clear sign that his 'rash' was eventually going to become something far,  _far_  worse.

As if the tail wasn't bad enough already.

"Look." Lanky as he was, he strode to the table and slid himself into the seat. He could stand and glare all he wanted, but there was literally  _no point_  in bothering to keep up an 'intimidating' front, especially not with the man presently seated at the table. And as deeply as he loathed the chair that had cramped up spine (thanks to hours of being restrained in a seated position), glaring at ones enemy at eye level was an acceptable alternative to doing it from a close distance.

"I don't want your sympathy."

Elbows pressed against the surface of the table, he clasped both hands together and stared daggers at his opponent.

  
I don't even want you to be  _nice_  to me; you've kept me locked up -  _imprisoned_  for what feels like  _days_  and you come in here and expect me to simply be  _okay_  with all this?" He sneered. "And to think; you assume I'm just some sniveling little juvenile - a  _kid_ , no less. A dumb little brat prepared to bend over to your every whim."

"Well, you're  **wrong.** "

Shuffling further forward, he eyed the man more closely. "I'm in one of the top Medical schools in the country,  _Mycroft_." He growled. "Do you know what that is? Do you know how  _hard_  it is to get in? I'm in the top of my class for Christ's sake. The  **top**."

"I studied,  _hard_ , to get in." He breathed. "I worked  _incredibly_  hard and yet, I'd say I'm easily the most intelligent student in my cohort. I volunteer; I'm an active participant in the community - I do food runs for the homeless, I help out in charitable organizations... When I can." Alright, not the best point. Studies were demanding, but the intended input counted, right?

_But I'm an alien. He doesn't care about your contribution to society; he cares about your biology. The groundbreaking fact that you represent._

_That 'we' are not alone._

"I'm  **aware**  of the reason you've torn me from my family, my girlfriend -  _hell_ , my bloody cat." Fists clenched; he was gearing up for the offensive yet he continuously had to breath steadily to bring himself back to planet Earth (a statement that had never reigned more true).

"I mean, Christ knows just how many people you had combing me over in my unconscious state." Once more, he scowled at the thought of being physically violated by those who could only see him as a  _discovery_ ; a scientific marvel who could only be measured by a monetary value. He felt bile trying to crawl up his esophagus, but he did himself well to perish the thought. What was done, was done. And what would only happen in the near future was clearly far beyond his control.

Because if one thing was clear, Mycroft was in the driving seat.

"But - I'm trying not to think about that." He grimaced, his attention wavering down to the sleek surface of the table before him. Playing the tough act wasn't going to win over his freedom, but he assumed that bowing down and making things easy for the 'suit' wouldn't make a lick of difference either.

Ah, this was difficult.

"I can understand that this is... Difficult, for you. For everyone involved, actually." Reaching back, he ruffled fingers through his unkempt hair and ascended his blue hues to have another stare-off with his 'guest'. "I mean, suddenly the Earth isn't as lonely as we thought and suddenly, the potential prospect of an 'invasion' or some form of alien-induced genocide suddenly seems possible. I get that. I  _understand_  why everyone's on bloody edge but for Heaven's sake - I'm  _just_  as confused as you, alright? And I'll tell you what I told the other men you sent in here; I don't  **know**  anything." He huffed. "I have severe retrograde amnesia from a rather nasty head-wound.  _Allegedly_ , the result of a ship crashing down from  _space_. Who knew!"

_Ease off the sarcasm._

"So to save yourself the trouble of asking 'what can you tell me?', I'll answer that for you now. I don't  **know**  anything." He scooted the chair a tad closer to the edge of the table. "I don't know  _what_  I am, I don't know what's going to happen to me, I don't even know the name of this 'planet' that I'm from. All I know, 'Mycroft', is that my name is Stevan, I have three sisters, two parents who give a shit, and a cat who seems insistent on clawing up my mattress. I have  _a future_ , and I'm going to be a surgeon - Better still, I'm going to be doing some  **good**." He paused. "I'm not some loser shooting up drugs in the back of an alley. I've never been in trouble with the law. I even found twenty bloody pounds on the ground, and what did I do? I handed it in to the Police station. Won't be doing  _that_  again." He frowned.

"My point is, and I suppose what I'm  _trying_  to say, is that I do  **not** deserve to be here, Mycroft." He breathed. "I didn't  _ask_  to be the offspring of the man who approached me and essentially shattered my life. I mean, I don't  _hate_  the man."

_He didn't want to give me up._

_That look in his eyes; he was torn._

"I guess I don't really  _know_  him." His shoulders slumped, and he had an air of defeat about him. He  _had_  spent years trying to track down his birth parents, and now that he'd met one of them... Perhaps he  _shouldn't_  be so quick to lay blame. Perhaps he should at least be the least bit chuffed that he'd made some sort of progress, albeit under accidental circumstances.

"Look."

His voice went a little quiet, and he suddenly came across as a little withdrawn. "Just, level with me. Tell me what's going to happen to me; to my... Biological father."

"And for my own welfare; are you going to release me? Let me see my family again? Allow me to say goodbye?" He pressed. "Hell - are you going to let me speak to... John?" The young man felt a little white-faced, but did his best not to fall apart. "Just, tell me what's going to happen. The good, the bad. I don't want you to sugarcoat it, I just want to get a grasp on my fate."

 

Mycroft would have been lying if he’d said that he was the least bit impressed by the young man who sat across from him. The man. Ironically, even though Steven was half Sherlock’s age, Mycroft considered him a ‘young man’ while Sherlock was, in his mind, still a mere boy.

 

It would always be that way, though, regardless of what Sherlock did. While Mycroft did feel a sense of responsibility towards Steven Harold, it was purely for the good of Queen and Country. He cared about what happened to him, but only in the context of what it could mean for science, for the government, for the military, for the common man.

 

Of course it was different with Sherlock. Mycroft would never admit it aloud—although he didn’t have to; he suspected that both John and Sherlock knew, as well as Anthea, probably even that _dreadful_ , batty old woman who served as his brother’s landlady—that Sherlock was the most important person—thing—in Mycroft’s life. Oh, he had neglected his brother, of course, and he had been coldhearted without regret, but if Sherlock needed help, Mycroft was there, swooping in and taking care of the many, _many_ things that the boy couldn’t handle on his own.

 

Aliens were apparently one of those things.

 

Aliens. Good Lord! Mycroft had never completely ruled out the idea of extraterrestrial life; although his mind was even more analytical and logical than Sherlock’s, he wasn’t as stubborn in what he thought. At least, not with scientific facts. Mycroft had _thought_ that Sherlock was the same way. He had heard his brother say before, ‘Once you have ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’

 

If it had been anyone else— _anyone_ else—who had been the alien, Sherlock wouldn’t have been nearly as torn up by it. Mycroft knew that. Instead, Sherlock would have been fascinated, performing experiments, asking questions, asking to visit the other world, trying to learn anything and everything he could about the new and fascinating species.

 

It was because John Watson, the one and only friend of Sherlock Holmes, had lied to him that Sherlock  couldn’t become so easily enthused about learning about him. It wasn’t a matter of simply not understanding something and needing to be taught, needing to have it explained. This was a secret that Watson had kept right under his nose.

 

Both of their noses, actually.

 

Mycroft did feel foolish for not noticing, but then he reminded himself that Sherlock would have thrown an absolute tantrum if he had done anything about Watson in the first place. Even now, Sherlock would. Sherlock already disliked him, Mycroft knew, but there was no need to strengthen that animosity.

 

“You are just like your father,” Mycroft said, quickly covering up the coldness of his comment with another insincere smile. “Bold, that is. Brave. However, I will say to you exactly what I said to him: bravery is the kindest word for stupidity.” Quickly, Mycroft held up his hand. “Not that I am calling you stupid, mind. I have, of course, researched you. You seem to be a very bright young man. In the top of your class at one of the country’s most elite medical schools, yes, I did see that. It is all very impressive.”

 

Mycroft stood up and walked over to the door. He knocked on it twice and it was opened, one of the armed guards appearing and handing Mycroft a brown paper bag from which emitted the smell of fresh fish and chips; a bottle of water was also given to him and then the door was shut tight. Mycroft walked both over to Steven and set them down on the desk in front of the young man.

 

“You may be here a while, Steven. I’m sure you’re hungry. Eat.”

 

Although Steven looked hesitant, Mycroft heard his stomach growl as he walked around to the other side of the desk and took his seat once more. He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together, and stared at the man.

 

The _alien_.

 

“I deeply regret to inform you,” Mycroft began, his voice and facial expression oozing genuine compunction even though he felt none of it, “that you are needed as…collateral, shall we say. I need information from your father. He has willingly offered it, but…” Mycroft trailed off in his drawl, shrugging nonchalantly. “People, when they are frightened, will say anything they believe you want to hear. He is frightened, now, because he knows that you are in our possession. ‘Our’, of course, being the British government.”

 

Mycroft leaned forward and stared hard at Steven. When he spoke again, he did so slowly, each word deliberate—soothing.

 

“You’ve not done anything wrong, Steven. We are aware of that. We can hardly condemn you simply because of your species, no? You were, for all intents and purposes, born on this planet. Your earliest memories occurred _on this planet_. You have, to the best of your ability, lived as a human your entire life thus far. Suffice it to say that we believe you when you say you know nothing about who—or rather, what—you are.”

 

Mycroft smiled genially. “Nobody is going to hold it against you. You are only here for safekeeping, as it were.”

 

The elder Holmes stood up again and walked towards the door of the room. He got his mobile phone out of his pocket and checked his email, both to be productive and because he wanted Steven to see exactly how cool and calm he was about all of this—so detached that he didn’t even need to pay attention.

 

“Humans have done things that are absolutely _wretched_ over the years, Steven, would you not agree?” The question was redundant, so Mycroft continued after only a minor pause. “Absolutely barbaric, the human race. Yes, we have our social niceties; we have our ‘golden rule’. But does that really make up for all the sins that we have a whole have committed?” The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched, something akin to both a smirk and a smile teasing at his lips. “I don’t know. Do you?”

 

Mycroft’s hand extend, resting on the cool, smooth door handle. He glanced over his shoulder at Steven, but his gaze didn’t linger, returning, instead, to the door. He looked it up and down, as if making sure that it was secure.

 

“I wonder if your true species would feel the same about us. And if so, how would they treat us? With disgust? Admiration? Would they desire to learn about us, or would they annihilate us at the very first chance they had? Was that why you and your father were here? On a scouting mission? Deciding whether we were or were not a threat?”

 

Mycroft shook his head, curtly.

 

“At least I can take comfort in knowing that you view yourself as one of us. Regardless of what your father may have initially planned, he will not let anything happen to you. I am certain of that.”

 

 He pulled the door open, as it was still unlocked from before, and stepped outside.

 

Nobody—not _anyone_ —harmed his brother.

 

 _Nobody_.

 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm still waiting on a post from my coauthor. She's very busy, so I'm still not sure if she'll be continuing the story or not. She says she will, but real life does have a tendency of getting in the way of things ;) Sorry for the funky spacing issues in this story! I'm not sure how to fix them in Word and when I try to do it here it makes a big mess.

Sherlock went back to his brother’s house, not Baker Street. As petulant as it may have been, Baker Street hadn’t been his home for three weeks, now. Mycroft’s home wasn’t his own, either, but his things were there; his clothes, his computer, his mobile charger, everything he needed.

 

Mycroft, unsurprisingly, was still at work. Sherlock changed into a pair of black trousers and his purple button-up, then sat down at the desk in what had formerly been the ‘guest’ room (Mycroft never had guests) and was now his temporary bedroom.

 

He was already typing up ideas in a word document, trying to think through what was most certainly one of his most challenging puzzles to date. It wasn’t a mystery, beyond figuring out how to get Stevran and John both out of Mycroft’s possession. It was just, quite literally, a matter of life and death.

 

Only just.

 

Sherlock spent the next five hours writing our various scenarios, running them through his head, over and over. Tricking Mycroft? Lying? A siege? Ha! He was only one man, and who would help him? He didn’t _have_ anyone else besides John. Lestrade? Molly? Mrs. Hudson? They were useless, the lot of them.

 

It was quite possible that one, or both, of the extraterrestrials would be killed. Sherlock—despite his hurt and the residual anger he felt, as well as not _really_ caring about Stevran—didn’t want that to happen.

 

Mycroft came home at some point, but he didn’t speak to Sherlock nor Sherlock to him. That was usually how it was between them; both of them coexisting but taking little to no notice of the other. Still, Mycroft felt just a _bit_ more at ease, knowing that Sherlock was in his bedroom just down the hall from his own.

 

It was better than worrying whether or not the boy was in a drug den or passed out behind rubbish bins.

 

The sun was coming up when Sherlock went back to the hospital. “I have been up all night,” he said, pushing the sliding door to John’s room open. “I have not—”

 

Even though he had known that John wasn’t human, obviously, and even though he had seen John’s true form before, it still gave him pause, encountering it again.

 

Fur. Scales! The tail seemed even longer now, bushier, although it could very well have only been his imagination. The antennae on his head looked rubbery and they were swiveling around; whether they could see, hear, or only feel, Sherlock didn’t know.

 

He wasn’t certain he wanted to.

 

“You—” Sherlock began, clearing his throat because he didn’t want to sound bloody _nervous_. He wasn’t nervous. He just hadn’t anticipated seeing _this_ again. Stupid, stupid! Of course he would! John hadn’t been able to take his solution; why hadn’t he _known_ that this was how he would look?

 

“—look different,” he settled on saying. Attempting to cut through the thick blanket of tension, he asked, “Did you get a haircut?”

 

 

"Nurse?  _Nurse_?"

 

 

 

Christ, how long had it been since his last meal? His stomach snarled audibly as he slowly paced with a hand pressed to forehead. He'd been lucky enough to be granted the basic human right of  _not_  being shackled like an animal to his bed, but his room was heavily guarded from the outside of his door in the hallway; not to mention the sheer multitude of cameras that had been planted in every corner of his room. He'd even considered the likelihood of those guards being advised to shoot on sight if he dared try to make a getaway. Good thing, really. A bit of discouragement to try his chances in the outside world and to live a life on the run was probably for the best, especially given his recent... Changes.

 

 

 

Well, 'changes' were a mild understatement.

 

 

 

Just over the course of twelve hours or slightly less, time had not been kind to John Watson.

 

 

 

Scales, fur, more scales; just when it felt as though it couldn't get much worse, it  _did_. What started off as a seemingly innocent rash on all extremities had led to a full blown catastrophe throughout the majority of his body. A thick layer of insulating cream and brown coloured fur ran from the nape of his neck, covered his back and blended with the fur of his tail (which had also increased in thickness). Fur also 'graced' the posterior aspect of his limbs; travelling down from his shoulder and reaching the back of his hands where it became sparsely coated, and also the back of his legs until it reached around to the points of his ankles. Plus side, it kept him warm and his natural standards of internal homeostasis were able to function normally and properly, but true to his concern - he looked  _ridiculous_.

 

 

 

By human standards, at least.

 

 

 

So aside from looking like something closer to wolf than human, the scales weren't helping his cause either. They were scattered in a vague patterned formation over the back of his hands and the tops of his feet, and lined the front aspect of his abdomen, spanning from the pelvic muscles and all the way up to the top of his pectorals. While fairly dull in colour (appearing as a fairly washed out greyish blue), there were moments in certain conditions of light where they almost presented with a rather peculiar bioluminescence. Unfortunately though, those moments were fleeting and the drab London sky rarely let through a sliver of light into his temporary 'prison'.

 

 

 

Ah, but if the scales and fur weren't enough, there was  _more_.

 

 

 

His antennae had unexpectedly protruded; two alien appendages that he'd  _never_  thought he'd see again. He'd always assumed that, given the potency of his compound, they would have permanently been suppressed. After all, his hadn't come through since puberty anyhow, and they were essentially redundant body parts; only the males had them, and what good  _were_  they? Most tended to have them removed, or they were generally the focus of a nasty injury due to a stupid mistake as a young, adolescent boy. He wasn't even sure why he'd bothered to keep his whilst living on his home planet, but alas; years of keeping them hidden had made him push all his alien characteristics to the back of his mind.

 

 

 

But  _really_ , that could only ever work for so long.

 

 

 

What had started off as a dull ache radiating throughout his upper skull had eventually led to two distinct bumps, which had then led to two very obvious antennae that jutted from his skull and extended at _least_  twelve inches in length, if not more. They were grey; rubbery in appearance, but they felt  _extremely_ hot upon touch. He didn't have a great deal of degree upon controlling them when he saw fit, but he found that they tended to do so upon their own accord; responding to sound, vibration and in some cases, varying degrees of light. Their  _true_  function had never quite been established; but as a medical man he'd always theorised that at some point in their evolution, perhaps his kind had once been blind and these were merely additional receptors for some sort of echolocation? Or perhaps these were once catalysts for their mild telepathic abilities?

 

 

 

_So many 'perhapses', not enough answers._

 

 

 

But - for all accounts and purposes, he  _was_  still the same man that he had been all his life. He  _was_  still the same John that everyone knew.

 

 

 

He just looked... Different.

 

 

 

So of course, it came as no surprise to him when Sherlock passed an extremely tension-laden remark his way when strutting into the room, rambling as he usually did regarding his latest findings (or in this case, lack thereof). At the time, John had been on his feet (taking advantage of the opportunity at every turn in case they decided to change their mind), and his tail hung visibly limp and just below the hem of the white fabric from his gown. If he'd had a bit of warning he would have shouted for Sherlock to hold back for a moment, but the detective moved fluidly and fast as he slipped through the parted guards and entered the room without repose.

 

 

 

And as expected, he looked lost for words.  _Him._  Sherlock Holmes - lost for words! Remarkable!

 

 

 

But finally, he spoke.

 

 

 

_Did you get a haircut?_

 

 

 

John couldn't help it, he chuckled. Uncomfortably, shamelessly  _chuckled_  until he started laughing so hard he was threatening to split his sides. His moment of hysterics was short lived though, for a few last minute heaves of stale, hospital air eventually brought him back down to planet Earth. Laughing was never a great way to instigate a proper conversation with the great and brilliant Sherlock Holmes, but it wasn't as though he had anything else to lose.

 

 

 

 _Well_ , except for his son, and Sherlock himself.

_And Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, bloody **Anderson**  for Christ's sake, as much of a twit that he is-_

 

 

 

John had to admit, Sherlock looked... Better? Happier, much more content. He still looked a tad stressed (as any man should be in his position), but he'd barged into the room with similar mannerisms as to when he didn't know about John's secret. John secretly wished that this had been a glimmer of hope, but he dared not get his hopes up. They still had a tremendous amount of work to do, and there was little time to do it.

 

 

 

"Haircut?" As if on cue, he ruffled his hands through his hair and trailed his fingers down the sides of his cheeks; his fingers brushing over the textured feel of scales that had started creeping around the sides of his face. "Ah, no. Not sure I'd be able to find one I could afford." His tail jerked as he spoke - just another 'thing' he had to deal with. Given the fact that his alien features were no longer suppressed, his central nervous system was reconnecting and strengthening with the nerves of his tail. Ergo, stronger connections meant two things; he could start to move his tail at will, and his tail also tended to have a mind of his own at the worst of times.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So. You, er... Been up all night?" Again, he rubbed the back of his head, wincing as he came into contact with his antennae. Mentally, he swore - again.

 

 

"I suppose it's fair to say that I've been a little sleepless myself." He huffed, gesturing to his fairly obvious 'changes'. "But, it's given me time to think. Try and establish some sort of battle plan, and set my mind straight."

 

 

As if back to their old routine, he strode towards Sherlock and crossed both arms atop his chest. Even the usual 'displeased Watson frown' was present, but he felt a little more at ease. "From what we know, Stevran's okay. He's being held as collateral - a bargaining chip, that's it. Provided I do as I'm told, tell Mycroft what I know, he'll be safe. Stevran will be fine. We both know what Mycroft's like - even if you put in a little input, he  **might**   _listen_  to you.  _Might_."

 

 

_Listen to yourself. Since when did you honestly become so naive?_

 

 

"Now, understandably, I don't believe I'll be a free man anytime soon. I can  _handle_  that; but what I can't handle is my son being treated like a second-class citizen. He's a bloody bright little thing; he'll do the world -  _this_  world, a hell of a lot of a good and I'll be  _damned_  if Mycroft takes away his right to study and live a proper, bloody normal life!" Typical John; his voice grew higher and higher with each passing word as he verbally vented. "I mean, I know you're not a parent - hard to understand when you've never had such a responsibility but  _Christ_ , I've got to be _there_  for him. Properly teach him about what he's going to expect - and it's not as though anyone  _else_  can do that. Only I can! Me. His father. His  **real**  bloody father!"

 

 

_Bloody hell, ease it._

 

 

"And then, there's you. I've been thinking about this  _all_  night. All bloody night-" He heaved. "Living with Mycroft or not, why the  **hell**  haven't you been eating properly? You look like you've lost ten bloody pounds, and I  _know_  you've always been a bit of a sodding beanpole, but even for you-" He shook his head. "And given that you just went through an incredibly traumatic experience - yes,  _my fault_  - you need rest! Rest, food, water, all of the above! Heaven’s sake, Sherlock. You were in a  _coma_. I'm up to my ears in guilt and Christ bloody knows I'll try to make it up to you, but you  **need**  to take care of yourself."

 

 

"Because unlike before, Sherlock, I can't be around to do the shopping. I can't be around to make you some tea, or pick away at the mould festering in the fridge. Right now, I can't do..." He paused, and glanced around at the small cube of a room; clearly lacking any decent furnishings and aesthetically pleasing artworks. "Anything. And for all we know, this could likely be a permanent thing. We've got to entertain the possibility that Mycroft will likely serve my actions with some sort of a trade; Stevran's freedom for my own - one I'd gladly accept." He nodded, albeit a tad reluctantly. "And before you say a word, I'd  _gladly_  do the same for you. Take a bullet, a boot to the head - couldn't give a sod. That's what friends do - well, that's what  _family_  is for. We stick together. We protect each other,  _human_  or not."

 

 

 

He lurched away from Sherlock abruptly and ambled quickly over to the window, and peered out at the world outside. It was bucketing down with a relentless force, but how he  _craved_  to be out in the rain. Never once in his life, had he been so desperate to step out in London's 'finest' weather, only to catch a chill.

 

 

 

But lord, right now he needed it.

 

 

 

"I just don't think there's a logical solution to this bind I'm in, mate. I don't." He murmured, his fingers momentarily pinching the bridge of his nose out of frustration. To accompany his grief, both his antennae and tail slumped simultaneously. "You're the most brilliant man I know and normally,  _anything_  for you is able to be overcome with sheer wit and whatever else you've got stored up in there." He tapped the side of his head to emphasise Sherlock's Mind Palace. "But given my sheer lack of intelligence and my tendency to sod it all up, I've put myself in a no-win situation. That's what's happened, and I have to face the consequences as a result."

 

 

 

Sighing heavily, he pushed away from the window, and turned his back to the world outside. There was no point longing over what he'd never see again; it was just yet another painful reminder of his impending indefinite incarceration.

 

 

 

"But you know what  _I_  want for you?" He smiled, albeit incredibly weakly but with pure sincerity. "I want you to be happy. I want you to move back to Baker Street, to throw that place into shambles and stuff festering liver into the salad crisper. I  _want_  you to solve cases; enjoy life, eat that terrible Chinese that you like a few blocks down the road." He huffed.

 

 

 

"But don't fight for my freedom because you feel obligated to do so; honestly, don't." He held out a finger, and shook his head. "If you're going to fight at all, ensure that Mycroft frees Stevran. I  _know_  you don't know him that well - you probably don't even like him, and that's fine. But if you're going to kick up a fuss, I'd rather you do it for him. Alright?”

 

 

 

Sherlock had been expecting all of this. He knew that John would tell him that it was all bloody well fine and good to offer him in exchange for Stevran. Sherlock truly didn’t know if he would be able to allow that, however. Why?

 

Because he didn’t care about Stevran. He just _didn’t_. He wanted him to get away from Mycroft, yes, but that was only from John’s benefit, not for the young man himself. There was nothing about Stevran that made Sherlock give a damn, nothing but his relationship to John Watson.

 

Apparently that was going to have to be enough. Sherlock knew perfectly well that John would never forgive him if he didn’t get Stevran out. He may be subtle about it, and he may not even consciously blame Sherlock for it, but Sherlock would blame himself. That would be more than enough guilt (something that Sherlock wasn’t even accustomed to feeling).

 

If Sherlock went completely against what John told him just now and allowed Mycroft to keep Stevran in exchange for John’s freedom, then John would _really_ never forgive him. Even so, that was precisely what Sherlock wanted to do. He could live without the boy being in his life. He could live without John too, technically, but he didn’t _want_ to.

 

John was lecturing him about his health, as usual, and it made Sherlock smirk. He’d heard it all before, John telling him that he needed to eat, he needed to sleep, he needed to keep the mold or pores out of the fridge; he needed to toss out the kidneys because they were rancid. The spiders had reproduced and now they had a nest the size of an orange in the closet; the eyeballs he’d microwaved had exploded and Mrs. Hudson refused to clean up the mess.

 

There was always something to lecture Sherlock Holmes on, and both Mycroft and John never turned down the opportunity.

 

“Exactly, John,” Sherlock said, nodding his head. “I was in a coma. I slept whilst I was unconscious. More or less. In any case, I do not need to sleep now, not just yet. I’m good for a bit.”

 

He _was_ tired, but Sherlock assumed that was more because of his middle-age than anything. At least, his near-middle age. He was still in his late thirties, but he would be forty before he knew it. Then fifty. Then sixty. Seventy, eighty. Dead.

 

That was, assuming he even lived that long. Sherlock lived a dangerous life and he preferred to keep it that way. He enjoyed taking risks. He enjoyed the thought of going out and, possibly, not coming home in the evening. He wasn’t suicidal by any means, but if there was no risk, there was no excitement. He _needed_ excitement. That was why he had found Jim Moriarty, despite his obvious character flaws (not that Sherlock had any room to talk about such things) to be a fascinating specimen.

 

He wasn’t a man. Not really. He was a machine, like Sherlock, and all he ever focused on was his endgame, his goal: to not be bored.

 

Sherlock had actually considered asking Jim for his assistance. It wasn’t something that he actually _wanted_ to do, but their options were severely limited. Outsmarting Mycroft was something that Sherlock was rarely capable of doing. He had used to think it was because he was an idiot, and at times he still did, but he knew that, even more so than him simply lacking the intelligence, Mycroft was just _that_ clever. While he wasn’t one for legwork, Mycroft had enough people working for him that he didn’t _have_ to be. They were nothing more than pawns, ready to do anything, anything at all, that the King asked of them.

 

Whatever Jim would want in return, it was possible that it wouldn’t even be worth it. Not only that, but Jim Moriarty, the world’s most dangerous criminal, would know about the existence of the only two aliens on the planet. Bloody hell, he may just decide to experiment on them _himself_. Sherlock had always viewed Jim’s work as the equivalent of wishing on a monkey’s paw—the client would get what they think they wanted, initially, but it could very easily turn out to be more trouble than it was worth.

 

Granted, Jim must have provided _some_ good services to stay in business. Sherlock still found it absolutely brilliant, the idea of a consulting criminal. Why hadn’t he thought of it? He would never work on that side of the law—against it, that is—but, as a consulting detective, why hadn’t he thought of the mirror image of that, a consulting criminal? He and Jim were both the creators of their jobs, the only ones in the world, and their intellect was a perfect match.

 

Between the two of them, _surely_ they could outwit Mycroft…just long enough to get John and Stevran somewhere safe.

 

It was possible that, by doing so, Sherlock would never be able to speak to John again. Mycroft would probably be watching his brother like a hawk, just waiting for him to reach out to John or for John to reach out to him.

 

Was it really going to end this way? With them being unable to even see or speak to one another?

 

Sherlock walked closer to John. His eyes remained fixed on the doctor’s, which had darkened, nearly turning completely black. It was unnerving to see John like this, without discernible pupils or irises, but Sherlock was resolute in what he was about to say and do.

“Don’t fight for your freedom because I feel obligated to do so,” he repeated John’s words from early, humming thoughtfully before nodding his head. “Do believe me, John. I _don’t_ feel obligated to do so. Why would I? You lied to me. About everything. The only thing I feel obligated to do is this. And after, we may discuss what we are going to do and, better yet, how we are going to do it.”

 

Sherlock made sure to move quickly. He had wanted to do this for three weeks, now, and he was finally going to give in to the urge and take what he thought he deserved.

 

Without an ounce of hesitation, Sherlock pulled his right arm back, curled his fingers into his palms, and then lunched forward, driving his fist directly into John’s cheek as hard as he could.

 

As soon as John started to stumble back, Sherlock grabbed his gown right his right hand—which was throbbing from hitting John’s face so bloody hard—and then repeated the action with his left fist against John’s left cheek.

 

Sherlock was not often an instigator in physical violence. He had no problems whatsoever about defending himself, though, and of course he had fought for drug money when he’d been younger, but this?

 

Well. John deserved it. And Sherlock _did_ feel better, now.

 

“There,” he muttered, shaking both of his hands out as he walked over to the bed and sat down on it, as calm as he ever was. “I’ve been wanting to get that out of my system for a while, now. I’m sure you understand.” He looked at John and lifted an eyebrow as the slightest hint of a smirk teased at his lips. “Do you need a doctor, Doctor? I can think of no better place to find one than in a hospital.”

 

 

Mycroft didn’t need to look at the hidden camera in John Watson’s hospital room to know that his brother had gone there. Even so, he found himself sitting at his desk, a small tumbler of whiskey in his hand, with his eyes fixed upon his computer screen.

 

Sherlock hadn’t told Doctor Watson any ideas that he had come up with. That was either a good sign, or it was nothing. Sherlock hadn’t looked around the room; either he hadn’t thought to check for a camera—unlikely—or he had simply decided to ignore the fact that Mycroft had, more than likely, planted one.

 

The two brothers knew one another very, very well, despite their differences. Or, maybe it was because of their differences that they knew how each would act in any given situation.

 

Mycroft was thinking about what _Sherlock_ was thinking about. What he would do. Who he would contact for help. His homeless network? They would be rather useless for this, wouldn’t they? Gregory Lestrade and Scotland Yard? No, no. Equally as useless. John Watson’s home planet? Would that even be possible?

 

Mycroft smirked. Normally, when Sherlock needed help on such a grand scale, he came to Mycroft to get it. Now, Mycroft was the _only_ person he couldn’t get help from.

 

 

He should have seen it coming.  
  
  
  
Should have. Deep down and hidden away with the depths of his subconscious, he likely expected it; seemed like a reasonable explanation as to why he failed to shy away as a sickening blow collided with his jaw. Even better, he failed to retaliate on the second surge against his other cheek - he just stood there and took it. But there was also a part of him that was incredibly surprised - not at the fact that he'd sent a few solid blows John's way, but in the way that Sherlock moved with such speed. For a lanky man who barely ate enough to sustain his metabolic rate, he was fast.  
  
  
  
But it wasn't as though this were the first time Sherlock had taken a swing, for a moment like this brought 'the Woman' briefly to the forefront of his mind.  
  
  
  
"Son of a-"  
  
  
  
He cupped his jaw and staggered sideways, backwards and any which way but forward as he desperately searched for some stability, but his vision was clouded by bright, jarring lights. He felt a warm, discernible liquid dribble down from his nose and down the corners of his mouth. That fist had clearly done a number on his jaw and he was fairly certain that he had a partially busted lip, but in time, they would heal.  
  
  
  
And physical wounds in this case were irrelevant. There were bigger things at stake.  
  
  
  
"Sodding-" Blinking rapidly to bring his vision back into focus, he wiped away the blood from his mouth and squinted harshly at the source of his misery. Under normal circumstances, he would have retaliated without a second thought and the inner soldier within him would have risen it's ugly head; key word, normal. But given that John had made the bed that had brought them into this mess, he'd now have to accept responsibility and to sleep in it.  
  
  
  
"I deserve that." He murmured, and blindly snatched out at the ghastly-thin bed sheet draped over the rock-hard mattress. Using the fabric, he dabbed it against his nose and tilted his head back so to stave off some of the bleeding. "I bloody deserve that." He repeated, and waited a minute or two for the streaming crimson to subside. As he grimaced, he flinched due to the black and blue radiating from his left cheekbone; ah yes, Sherlock had indeed done a solid number on his face. And it hurt.  
  
  
  
A lot.  
  
  
  
But - as John had to continuously remind himself - this was progress. This, the very fact that Sherlock had lashed out in a fit of rage, was excellent! Amidst the pain and the misery, the doctor would have forced a grin had he not been so bashed up. He lowered his head but held the corner of the sheet to his nose as he locked eyes with the detective, and gave him one hell of an eye roll.  
  
  
  
"Mrs. Hudson would be proud." He quipped, his voice a tad nasally from the sheet. "I dare say she got this far with her ex-husband. Needless to say, honesty is always a solid step towards resolution." Was it too soon? Was a bit of harmless banter with the beanpole a tad dangerous? There was always the chance that he simply needed to vent, and venting didn't always necessarily lead to a quick fix on a crumbing friendship.  
  
  
For all I know, we've just taken ten steps back.  
  
  
  
"Best not tell her though. The day you moved out, she almost booked the pair of us into couple's counselling." He scoffed, and glanced down at the sheet. After being satisfied that his nose and mouth had stopped leaking, he tossed it to the side. He might be trapped in this hell, but he certainly wasn't responsible for laundry.  
  
  
  
"And I talked her out of it. There's already enough talk about town, but people would most certainly talk."  
  
  
  
Ah, the rumours that spread regarding Watson and Holmes; they were more viral than the common cold. What had started off as an innocent blog to keep the demons of his mind at bay had led to a full blown fan following - many of his fellow 'bloggers' and followers convinced that Sherlock and his live-in were far more 'friendly' than previously thought; Mrs. Hudson being incredibly convinced that the pair were practically on the verge of planning a wedding. John could recall a time going back to a time when they'd first met; Angelo had popped a candle on the table and without a second thought, had assumed that John was Sherlock's 'partner' (in every sense of the word). And then there'd been the Woman, and the man at the Grimpen Village Inn - and the list went on.  
  
  
  
And of course, John was quick to shoot down the rumours at every turn.  
  
  
  
Now, John wasn't a homophobe or anything of the sort. If anything, gender was irrelevant and a tad superfluous. On his planet, males and females (aside from the obvious anatomical differences), treated procreation as a shared responsibility. Intercourse, like humans, was both for pleasure and breeding. The general pairing went towards males and females, but homosexuality wasn't frowned upon, and it certainly wasn't taboo. It was natural; normal - not even blinked at. And whilst John had always had an eye towards females in the past (even on Earth, it seemed), he wasn't adverse to the idea that a male might sway his interest.  
  
  
  
And whilst John had made it a priority to ensure that both he and Sherlock remain on a strictly platonic level, this 'bond' he'd described which had developed and flourished over time certainly threw a spanner in the works. And it wasn't to say that John was 'head over heels' for Sherlock, or anything of the like. On the contrary, it simply made John feel confused. After all, the pair of them were mates. They hung out (to some degree), and they had each other's backs. Plus, John had always safely assumed that Sherlock was either straight (which was fine), asexual (also fine), or that there lay the potential for him to swing both ways but it wasn't as though John was longing or pining for Sherlock to 'change'. He was happy with how things were; friendship, relationship or platonic, it didn't matter.  
  
  
  
What mattered - what had always mattered was that Sherlock remain in his life. Even just as a bloke to talk to, or to complain about his day with. A friend, in every sense of the word.  
  
  
  
"And coma does not equal quality REM, you clot." He murmured, his voice slightly lisped thanks to the swelling and bruising localising around his jaw. "I know how bad I look, but you look horrid. Honestly. Really. I wouldn't give you anything but the truth, irony aside."  
  
  
  
John stood with trepidation for a moment, and after a minute or two of standing and looking a little lost, he sighed heavily as he ambled sheepishly to the bathroom; his tail unfortunately in tow. Bending over, he splashed some water down his face and peered upwards at the mirror, and his heart sunk.  
  
  
  
Each and every time he saw his face (his real face), he was given a harsh reminder of the way his life was now going to be. He'd changed back into that; a figure that he'd once been proud of back home. The thing that he'd become now, or changed back to - by human standards, he was grotesque. Monstrous. A beast that children were told stories of so they'd behave. Where he'd once had defining blue eyes that told stories, they were now washed out with a sinking black that looked and felt depthless. His skin was no longer that tanned olive tone that had almost been a permanent fixture after his time in Afghanistan, but now a mottled mess of a sickly pallor, scales and fur. But not only that; he was losing weight. Not dramatically mind you, but his natural metabolic rate didn't need a great deal of fat or muscle, so his body's natural inclination was to waste away until it kept what he needed.  
  
  
  
Have I become ashamed of my own body?  
  
  
  
The very thought that he was ashamed (or starting to become so) made him feel vile. He wasn't human; he'd never been human, despite his solution turning him into the ultimate, walking, talking lie.  
  
  
  
But a decade on Earth, surely that meant something? Granted, he'd meddled and messed with countless batches of solution - some working, some not - but he'd always thought of himself as a bit handsome (by human standards), so he'd never been too terribly upset about his conversion.  
  
  
  
Too late for regrets now, I suppose.  
Only time to move forward.  
  
  
  
  
“If you're going to be utterly insistent on saving both of us, and if we're to discuss what we're going to do and how we're going to do it, there might be a solution. I mean, the cards are heavily stacked against us and I doubt I've got even a dash of hope but there's always a chance we can try to--" Suddenly, he paused, and peered out from the doorway towards Sherlock. He then raised his attention to the corner (camera 1), and to the other (camera 2), and briefly considered the idea that they were audio-capable. This was Mycroft Holmes, after all. The man could probably lip-read in twenty-four languages. Audio or not, discussing anything out in the openness of the hospital room wasn't advisable.  
  
  
  
  
He spun around and started dipping his head under the sink, near the loo and around the back of the loo as he searched desperately for bugs or plants, but after five minutes of stress as he rummaged around, he was fairly satisfied that the bathroom hadn't been bugged (for dignity's sake, he surely hoped not).  
  
  
  
"Sherlock?" He approached the door, but it was clear to see that the doctor was acting a little... Peculiar. "Mind coming in the bathroom for a tick?"  
  
  
  
"Because--" How to speak in code? Think, Watson, think!  
  
  
  
"Insects." He frowned, and subtly gestured with his shoulder to the ceiling corner closest to him. "Bloody bug bit me, and I think--" He turned around and took a step back. "I think there's none in the bathroom. So if you wouldn't mind, I'd love to continue this conversation in the bathroom." Another step back. Now, he was smack-bang in the middle of the quaint, drab little room, and hopefully out of the watchful eye of the multiple cameras littered around.  
  
  
  
"Once we get the bugs sorted, I might have a solution." By now, his back was planted against the tiled wall and he felt his tail slump loosely down until it trailed against his upper calves. "Something to do with our friend..." He coughed, making sure to space the words. "Ship."  
  
  
"Because that's what friend ship is all about, right? Sharing things? Oh, be sure to close the door behind you. Don't want any more spiders--insects, to get in."

 

 

Sherlock didn’t think he would ever get used to the way John looked, now.

 

No, no. That was sheer drama, not even thinly veiled. Sherlock _knew_ he would get used to it—really, it was amazing what a person could become desensitized to when exposed to it enough, and Sherlock, with his mind, was even quicker than most because he didn’t often get emotionally involved—but it was still so bloody _bizarre_.

 

From head to toe John was covered in fur, although it was, at least, mostly on the posterior side of his body. Up his legs, down his neck, and Sherlock could tell from the way his gown stuck up just so that it was all over his back too. On his arse? Probably. All Sherlock could really see was the tail, which looked to be even longer and thicker than it had before.

 

And then the scales. There were so many of them, hundreds on his torso, from his abdomen to his pectorals, and then they became more sparse on the front of his neck, hands, and on his face, all of which also had fur dotted around. It was as if his body had been unable to decide whether it wanted fur or scales, so it decided to give both of them a try simultaneously.

 

Sherlock was more than a little smug as he watched John struggle to control the bleeding (red, he noticed, so that laid to rest his unasked question of whether John’s species would spew black ooze rather than actual blood) from his nose and the gash on his lip. Good. As John had said, he bloody deserved that. All those goddamn lies, making Sherlock feel like a complete and utter _fool_ for trusting someone so blindly. Christ! It was a wonder why Sherlock never did so. He had already decided that he wouldn’t ever again. There were certain people in his life that he did trust, and he would continue to do so, but anyone else who came into their lives, he was going to be wary of. It was self-preservation at its finest.

 

Sherlock kept his face impassive as John spoke about Mrs. Hudson. She had always been a gossip, really the most gossipy person he knew, although she was, ironically, someone he trusted without hesitation. Granted, Sherlock wouldn’t have trusted her with _everything._ He would never trust the woman to help him in one of his most volatile experiments; he would never trust her to come along on a case with him and actually be useful. However, he had trusted her with Irene Adler’s mobile phone. He trusted her to bring him tea when he asked for it and to go to the shop for biscuits when he couldn’t be bothered (which was always).

 

Living with Mycroft had been a reminder of just how much Sherlock had actually come to rely on Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft had his own private cook and cleaners, but it wasn’t the same. They never touched his experiments (something that Sherlock always shouted at Mrs. Hudson for doing), and he had actually _missed_ that. When he was irritable—again, which happened more often than not—and snapped at the help, he wanted them to fuss and give him some snarky remark back, as Mrs. Hudson, and John, would so often do. Instead, they just nodded their heads and said either ‘Yes, Mr. Holmes’ or ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes’ and then scuttled off.

 

Mrs. Hudson offered him the personal touch that Sherlock claimed he didn’t want. He hated it, more often than not, but it was what was familiar to him and—he told himself—that was the only reason he liked it and noticed its absence when it wasn’t there.

 

Couple’s counseling, though. For goodness sake. Technically, they were _not_ a couple. Nobody seemed to believe them when they—or rather, when John—told them. Sherlock never took it upon himself to do so, because he just didn’t care enough to bother. What did it matter to him if people thought they were together? People already _did_ think it, so the inaccuracy of their thoughts hardly mattered. If Sherlock had learned one thing throughout his life, repeatedly, it was that people were going to believe what suited them, regardless of the truth.

 

That was what he had done with John, after all.

 

Sherlock felt his stomach twist uncomfortably, and he hoped it didn’t show on his face. The two of them, being a couple. Good Lord! They wouldn’t _work_ , the two of them, together. There was absolutely no way that they could be in a proper relationship.

 

First and foremost: they weren’t even the same species. Didn’t that matter to John’s? It probably did. It certainly mattered to humans. While John was still humanoid in appearance, it would be a bit like a person going off and dating a primate, or a kangaroo (down to the pouch, even). Of course John was different in that he could communicate, think rationally, and consent, but it was still so _strange_.

 

Then again, Sherlock had always had an affinity for things and people that were abnormal. He himself was one of them.

 

The second problem, though, _was_ Sherlock. He had never even entertained the idea of being in a relationship with somebody. Yes there had been fleeting thoughts about it over the months of getting to know John, but that was all they were, yes? Just thoughts. It would never _really_ work out between them. John preferred women, after all, and Sherlock…

 

Well. Sherlock preferred his work. His work came first to him, it always had, and what if that was a problem in their relationship? For as many as Sherlock had seen John in, he didn’t actually know how John acted in his relationships, or how he wanted his girlfriends to act; that is, he didn’t know what John looked for in a potential partner. All the women Sherlock had seen him with had been morons, so if _that_ was mandatory on John’s list of criteria, Sherlock didn’t meet it.

 

Also, Sherlock had never seen himself as being a sexual being. He had always thought of himself as asexual and aromantic. These—thoughts, of being with John…they were just nonsense. They had to be. They were feelings of friendship that he was misinterpreting, surely. After all, Sherlock had never had a proper friend before John. What if he was thinking that he was feeling one thing—romance—but was really just feeling another, friendship?

 

That would pose a problem. Even so, didn’t the fact that he was even _thinking_ about this, after what John had done, mean something? Nobody in their right mind would still think to themselves, ‘Do I want a relationship with him, or don’t I?’ after being lied to about a person’s _species_.

 

Besides, Sherlock didn’t even know if he liked men. He liked them well enough as people, he supposed (the ones that weren’t complete idiots, anyway, which left very few), but did the thought of a penis and testicles actually _arouse_ him?

 

For the sake of satisfying his own curiosity, Sherlock pictured a set of male genitalia. He had seen plenty on corpses at crime scenes, in the locker rooms at school, on cadavers in the lab…

 

And, no. Staring down at a corpse with its cock and bollocks on display did absolutely nothing for him. But, when he pictured a nude woman lying there on the table, he found that he experienced the same lack of desire.

 

Sherlock considered picturing _John’s_ cock and bollocks, but as he didn’t know what they looked like, especially in this alien form, he found that it was impossible. Besides, genitalia was only a small part of a person. Obviously it was a rather crucial part during sexual congress, but was that actually required in relationships? If they didn’t have sex, what would be the point? What would be different? What would they do in a relationship that they didn’t already do?

 

They lived together. They worked together. They spent time together, they talked. What difference would being in a formal relationship make?

 

These were all analytical questions that Sherlock was thinking about, even as John rambled on about some insect being in the room. For Sherlock, it was very black and white—either something was, or it wasn’t. However, given the revelation about John being both human and _not_ (emphasis on the not), the detective knew that he would have to broaden his mind, to some things. It was either that or be _wrong_. Up until now, the existence of extraterrestrial life had been rather a matter of opinion; some scientists gave a resounding ‘no’, whereas others refused to rule out the possibility. They had each looked at the evidence presented to them and drawn their own conclusions.

 

Now, Sherlock had an alien standing only a few feet from him, talking to him. It made Sherlock realize that not everything was going to be one way or not at all; this way always and never that way.

 

So wasn’t it just _possible_ that, despite never wanting it before, he wanted to attempt a relationship—or _something_ —with John?

 

His own question came back to him as John was shrugging his shoulders in that very odd way—cameras in the room, Sherlock noticed with a glance; _lovely_ , just what they bloody needed— _what would they do in a relationship that they didn’t already do?_

 

Sherlock knew one possible answer to that.

 

“Insects,” he said slowly, nodding his head, even though he knew Mycroft wasn’t stupid enough to not have seen through John’s little act. He could only hope that it wasn’t Mycroft himself watching the cameras, but one of his underlings—one who would fall for John’s horrid excuse. Apparently he was a brilliant actor when it came to hiding his alien identity, but not so much when he was trying to get Sherlock out of the line of sight and sound from his brother’s observation.

 

It was fine, though. It was all fine.

 

Not really, but right at this moment, at this exact second, Sherlock would tell himself that. He wanted to experiment, now, and test his theory. Stevran could be put on hold. _Everything_ could be put on hold.

 

Sherlock steadily walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. It was small, so much so that they could both barely turn around without brushing against one another. John looked like he was about to speak, but Sherlock didn’t want him to. He held up a single finger and shook his head. Then, as if it came naturally, he slid that finger beneath John’s chin, tilted the alien’s head up, and pressed their lips together. He could feel John’s scales beneath his finger tip; John’s lips were dry, probably because he had been licking them from nerves (Sherlock assumed) and also because the air in his hospital room was so bloody stale. Sherlock stared into John’s unreadable black eyes for only a half-second before his own fell shut. That was what people did when they kissed. He’d seen it on the telly.

 

It was his first kiss. His _very first kiss_. People tended to remember that, didn’t they? Where they were, who they were with, what it was like. It held sentimental value to them for reasons that Sherlock had never before understood.

 

He understood it a little better, now.


End file.
